


Three

by okapi



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Addiction, Alternate Universe - Gender Changes, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Anal Play, Bathroom Sex, Beach Holidays, Begging, Biting, Cunnilingus, Daddy Kink, Dancing, Dream Sex, Drug Use, Fem!John - Freeform, Fem!mycroft, Femlock, Frottage, Gender or Sex Swap, Happy Ending, Holding Hands, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Intimacy, John Sharing, Kissing, Lingerie, Male!Anthea, Massage, Masturbation, Multi, No Incest, Phone Sex, Polyamory, Polyamory Negotiations, Rating May Change, Rough Sex, Scars, Shower Sex, Slow Build, Soulmate-Identifying Marks, Spanking, Vacation, Vaginal Fingering
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-01
Updated: 2016-10-03
Packaged: 2018-04-18 12:09:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 18
Words: 44,260
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4705550
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/okapi/pseuds/okapi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fem!Sherlock/John/Mycroft Soulmate AU.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Sebamher](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sebamher/gifts).

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This first chapter was written for Polyshipping Day on September 1.

Three mirrors on three walls.

Three sets of eyes staring into glass at three fingers tracing ink on skin.

Three sighs.

One thought.

Never.

* * *

“Sherlock?”

“Mycroft!”

“Are you high?!”

Sherlock laughed. “No!”

“You’re in a toilet.”

“At Barts. Barricaded myself in with a cleaning cart.” Sherlock wiped her nose with her sleeve.

“For God’s sake, use a handkerchief!”

Sherlock drew a tissue from her pocket and slid down a tiled wall to the grimy floor.

“I met just her, Mycroft! We’re going to look at flat tomorrow!”

“Who?”

“JOHN!” Sherlock giggled. “It’s a nickname! A bloody nickname! She’s a _woman_! A _woman_ named _John_! There’s always something!”

“Sherlock...”

Sherlock sniffed. “How many boys, Mycroft? How many men? How many frustrated conversations and disappointed fumblings before we decided that the rules didn’t apply to us? That we were different?”

“We _are_ different, Sherlock. Our treehouse fantasy was just that: the collective reverie of two very cloistered young girls. There has never been a recorded case of two individuals _legitimately_ sharing the same soulmate or of a single individual possessing two names etched on skin. You should not be thinking…”

“Her surname’s Watson. Army doctor. Recently invalided from Afghanistan. She’s got a psychosomatic limp and a therapist. Studied medicine at Barts. That’s enough for you to go on, isn’t it?”

“More than enough, but Sherlock…”

“Just meet her, Mycroft, and then tell me what I shouldn’t be thinking.”

“Very well.”

* * *

“That’s her, Sherlock. That’s the woman I was talking to you about.”

“I know _exactly_ who that is.”

“So, another case cracked. How very public spirited…though that’s never really your motivation, is it?”

“John, this is my sister…”

“Sherlock…”

“Your sister?!”

“…Mycroft.”

John dropped her head, silently studying a dark spot on the pavement. Finally, she looked up, licked her lips, and said with a smile, “We’re going for Chinese, Mycroft. You should come.”

* * *

“Doctor Watson, there is no precedent for…”

John nodded slowly. “You need proof?”

Mycroft leaned back in her seat and crossed her arms. “Yes,” she said plainly.

* * *

One mirror.

Three sets of eyes staring into glass at three fingers tracing ink on skin.

Three smiles.

One thought.

Finally.


	2. Eye to Body

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Set immediately after "The Blind Banker" episode, our three heroines begin to navigate their relationship.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This fic is structured around Morris's 12 stages of intimacy with some non-sexual examples of intimacy woven among the others. The goal is to get these three together, physically as well as in other ways, and to explore along the way what intimacy means. 
> 
> I hope you enjoy.

John watched Sherlock.

And sighed.

“Christ, she’s fantastic!”

The sky was heavy with dark clouds, and the wind was just beginning to stir into a whine.

Sensing the imminent downpour, John had taken pre-emptive shelter under the awning of a closed café whilst Sherlock flitted about the dead body in the middle of the cordoned-off street.

John liked her. Liked the dark hair, the aquiline nose, the long fingers, the regal stature, the way clothes hung on her, the way her body moved, like it was doing now, fluttering like a Belstaff-winged moth.

Any minute now, and John hoped it would be sooner, rather than later, Sherlock would rattle off her deductions to stunned audience, and then John would have an additional attribute to admire.

For now, she would wait. And watch. And sigh.

To think that _this_ was her soulmate. Well, one of them.

“Good afternoon, Doctor Watson.”

John jumped. There was the other one!

“Jesus Christ, Mycroft!”

Mycroft stood in the doorway of the café. One corner of her mouth twitched, which John guessed must be her version of a smile.

“My apologies for startling you.”

“You do love to be dramatic.” John said with a chuckle. She glanced briefly at Sherlock, and seeing that she was still absorbed in clue-gathering, turned back to Mycroft. “Welcome back.”

“Thank you. Additional apologies for my abrupt departure so soon after our introduction. My work…”

John made a dismissive gesture. “We’ve been busy.”

“Indeed. I was wondering if you might dine with me this evening. It would afford us the opportunity to become better acquainted. Sherlock seems to have the advantage on me, in that respect, what with your _cohabitation_.” She pronounced the final word as if it were an infectious disease. Or a cardinal sin.

John nodded. “Sure. Uh, where?”

“I belong to a club that has an excellent dining facility.”

“The place where no one’s allowed to speak?! Sherlock mentioned it.”

Mycroft cleared her throat. “There is a small anteroom where quiet conversation is permitted.”

“Guess, it’s a Holmes thing. Silence. When we first met, Sherlock warned me that she sometimes she doesn’t talk for days on end.”

Mycroft blinked. Then she flushed.

John added quickly, “Alright by me. The world’s far too chatty sometimes.”

Rain began to fall. There was a loud splashing behind John.

“Well done, John! You’ve ruffled her feathers somehow. Sister Dear, jet lagged as usual, I see. They do make creams for that, you know.”

Seeking to interrupt the ensuing staring match, John asked, “Did I miss it, your deductions?”

“No.” Sherlock grinned. “I’m about to show the Metropolitan Police Service just how out of their depths they are on this one.”

“Well, I want a front row seat. Alright, Mycroft, tonight, what time?”

“I will collect you from the Baker Street flat at eight o’clock.”

“Sounds good.”

“John!” Sherlock was already on the opposite side of the street, stomping impatiently.

“See you later, Mycroft.” John pulled her jacket collar over her head and made to leave the protection of the awning.

“Doctor Watson.”

John turned back. Mycroft extended the handle of her umbrella. “You can return it to me this evening.”

John smiled and said brightly, “Thank you!”

* * *

“I don’t understand,” said John as she hurried after Sherlock.

“Perennial state for you, I’d expect!”

“I have a perfectly good umbrella, and yet you just walked half a dozen streets in the pouring rain.” John collapsed the umbrella and shook it. Then she followed Sherlock up the stairs.

“That’s Mycroft’s umbrella.”

“Sibling rivalry is worth getting sopping wet, good to know!”

Sherlock hung the Belstaff on a hook and squished down the hall. She returned barefoot in a tartan dressing gown, towelling her hair; John hung up her jacket.

“I’m…not to.” Sherlock’s words were muffled by the towel.

“What do you mean ‘not to’? It’s an umbrella!”

“No one touches Mycroft’s umbrella. Not Anthea, not her other staff, not me.”

“It’s an _umbrella!_ Not the Queen’s knickers!”

Sherlock levelled a stare at her. Then she said coolly, “Take it up by the handle. See where that tiny ridge is. Hold it with one hand, thumb on the ridge, thumbnail in the groove. Now place your other hand below and twist.”

“Holy Mary!” John partially unsheathed the sword. The blade shone sharp and bright. “Minor position, my arse! This is some serious 007-ninja shit right here!” She re-sheathed it and hung it beside her jacket.

“Now, do you understand? I’m not to have it.”

“Then why do _I_ have it?” asked John.

“Finally you’re asking the right question,” said Sherlock, flopping on the sofa.

John shook her head. “Enough of umbrellas. Let’s have tea.”

“Finally!” moaned Sherlock, pretending to swoon.

* * *

“One for you.”

John set a mug down on the small table in front of the sofa beside Sherlock.

“And one for me.”

As soon as John plopped down in her armchair, she felt the heat of Sherlock’s gaze on her.

“What?” she asked.

“John…” Sherlock’s voice quivered.

* * *

“Sherlock!”

Sherlock bolted from John’s side. Her magnifying glass hit the rug.

“It didn’t touch it! She said I could!”

That, John thought, was not the voice of a grown woman. That was the voice of a girl, getting caught doing something naughty.

Mycroft stood in the entrance way.

“It’s true, Mycroft,” said John, slipping her arms back in her shirt and buttoning it. “Sherlock asked, very politely, I might add, to examine my scar.”

“A _visual_ examination!” insisted Sherlock, moving behind John’s chair, with her hand tucked neatly behind her back.

Mycroft was still frowning, looking every bit the reproachful governess.

“I’ve never had anyone show any interest in it. Most of the people who’ve seen it, want me to cover it up. So I thought, what the hell.” John smiled casually, but Mycroft seemed to look through her, eyes boring into Sherlock.

Lord, these two, thought John. _These_ are my soulmates.

“So, give me a second and we can go. Ah,” John rose, then she grabbed the umbrella and handed it to Mycroft, “here, love. Thank you.”

Now they were at it again. Staring. John felt the temperature in the room drop considerably. She looked at Mycroft’s face. It was the same odd expression from earlier that day.

Lord, she’d done it.

“Hey, listen, Mycroft, Sherlock showed me the, uh, thing. Inside.” Mycroft shifted her laser gaze on John. “I’m sorry. I wish I could delete it, like Sherlock can delete things, but I know. I won’t tell anyone. About that. Or whatever other super-spy gadgetry your Q has cooked up for you.” John smiled nervously, but Mycroft just blinked. “Uh, okay. Two minutes.” John raced down the hall to the loo. She turned the sink tap on full, but she could still hear their voices over the stream.

“How long’s it been since someone called you ‘love’? Twenty-five years? It would’ve been Mummy or perhaps Aunt Gertrude…”

“Shut up, Sherlock! And what are you doing?! Ogling her like she’s a circus…”

“Don’t you dare call her that! She’s my soul—“

“She’s mine, too! And I’ll be damned if I’ll sit by and watch you treat her like something on one of your petri dishes.”

“She said I could look at it! And take a mould!”

Silence, which, by now, John recognized as Staring Silence.

“You’d better have her back by midnight!”

“I’ll have her back when _she_ wants to come back.”

Teeth and hair brushed, shirt tucked, John opened the door wide, so it squeaked.

“Off we go,” she said, way too brightly.

* * *

Once they were ensconced in leather and tinted glass, Mycroft spoke,

“Doctor Watson, you should not allow my sister to take such liberties…”

“It’s okay, Mycroft. Really. I thought it would be weird, but it wasn’t.”

“It seems quite…intimate.”

“I know, but I like Sherlock. A lot. And I trust her. Or I’m beginning to. And I think she trusts me. In her own way. I mean, last week, I had a row with a chip and pin machine...”

Mycroft raised an eyebrow.

“Don’t ask. And she said, ‘Take my card.’ Just like that. Without a hesitation. I couldn’t believe it. I know people who would sooner let me shove vegetable marrows up their arse than hand over the keys to their veritable financial kingdom.”

“The company you keep, Doctor.”

“I know. Anyway, how was your week?”

“Uneventful.”

“With an umbrella like that, I doubt it, but okay. Mine was super. Met one of Sherlock’s uni chums…”

“Sebastian J. Wilkes.”

“Yeah, I wanted to kick his teeth in, on principle.”

“I empathize. The ‘J’ stands for John.”

“Yeah, I figured. Tosser. At least we took five figures off him. So, let’s see, what else, I got a job, Sherlock got a case, I got an ASBO, we went through a lot of books, we got shot at, I went on a date, got kidnapped by Chinese smuggler-gangsters, and finally, Sherlock solved the case! Oh, and she’s got a nine-million-pound museum artefact in her hair right now, so if you could persuade her to…”

“You flatter me, Doctor, if you think I can persuade my sister to do anything, especially relinquish a bauble that has caught her attention. But, I am curious about your association with Doctor Sawyer.”

“Yeah, I wanted to speak with you about that. I’m under the impression that Sherlock wants the bond between her and me to be platonic.”

“She used those words?”

“Well, the second night we met, she said that she was married to her Work and that relationships were not her area. She hasn’t said anything else or given any indication that she wants to, uh, be more. What she said was true: she hasn’t touched me. At all.”

“She’s studying your scar.”

John laughed. “She studied a maggot-filled corpse earlier today, and I don’t think she wants to shag that. At least I hope not. Anyway, it’s fine. All fine. I mean, these days, platonic soulmates are as much the norm as, well, the other kind. But, I wanted to ask you what you wanted, taking for granted that ideas can change and people evolve and this is unchartered territory for all three of us. But, you’re a bit difficult to read, at least for the non-genius part of the population.”

John let silence creep into the space between them.

Finally, Mycroft said, “Among my enemies, petty enemies, mind you, I’m sometimes referred to as the Ice Bitch. The prospect of thawing, even for someone as accommodating as yourself, is...”

John nodded. “A bit daunting.”

“Yes.”

“Do you want to, thaw, that is?”

More silence.

“Yes.” The word was soft, more breath than sound.

“Good. That’s good. Well, we’ll take it slow. Step by step, and plenty of space to stop and change our minds or what have you. Sherlock will, of course, be a factor, even if she’s not…”

“Doctor Watson, I urge you to have a frank conversation with my sister about your assumptions.”

“You think I’ve misinterpreted her?”

“What happened, exactly, on your date with Doctor Sawyer?”

“Well, Sherlock invited herself along and was quite rude and obnoxious and then we were kidnapped and then…yeah, she pretty much ensured that Date Number Two will never happen.”

Mycroft nodded and looked out the window. “Well, here we are. The duck is quite good.” She held the umbrella aloft as John exited the car.

“Why don’t you order for me?”

Mycroft blinked. And then John saw that twitch. It _was_ a smile. “My pleasure.”

“I thought it might be,” said John with a wink as she passed.

* * *

John decided that she liked this. Silence. It was good. A chance to enjoy the food, which was, of course, excellent, without having to worry about being clever or charming, which she suspected might be a no-win situation with the woman opposite her.

Her soulmate. It was chance to study her soulmate. And be studied, no doubt. She wondered she was communicating to Mycroft right now, beyond the dossier—for she was sure there was one, a quite big one by now—and the surveillance footage.

Her soulmate. Mycroft was…handsome, elegant, but…a bit _too_ …

A bit too tall, taller than Sherlock. A bit too severe, with features a bit too dark on skin a bit too pale. A bit too angular, with hair chopped a bit too short and slicked a bit too wet.

She cut an imposing figure, for sure. On a dark night, with her trusty stabby stick, she could probably scare the life out of somebody, cut the life out of somebody, all the while whistling ‘God Save the Queen’ and never once mussing the crease in her bespoke.

John had considered Sherlock’s stature and felt, were they ever to embrace, that she would tuck rather nicely under Sherlock’s chin, but Mycroft…

Mycroft would curl over both of them. Like an umbrella.

John pondered this while the last sip of a very fine whiskey slid down her throat. Then she took a deep breath and nodded. They both stood, and Mycroft ushered her out the door.

* * *

“Everything was excellent, Mycroft. The finest meal I’ve had in ages, thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”

“And you correctly deduced my sweet tooth.”

“Something we share, in addition to inked skin.”

“Yeah, speaking of that, maybe we should do this again. You know, spend time together, doing something fun, that we both like.”

Mycroft said nothing.

“Do you have a hobby?” asked John.

“No.”

“Everyone’s got a hobby. What do you do in your free time?”

“I have no leisure, Doctor Watson.”

“Come on. Do you follow a sport? Football? Rugby? Cricket?”

“No.”

“Films?”

“No.”

“Books?”

Mycroft paused and gave a slight nod. “On occasion.”

“See? We could have a book club!”

Mycroft’s eyes widened.

“That settles it,” said John. “Soulmate book club. Have you read _The Notebook_?”

“I’ve read many notebooks.”

“I think you might like it,” said John, stifling a giggle.

“You’re…joking…with me,” said Mycroft slowly.

“Teasing. A bit. S’alright?”

The twitch reappeared. “Yes. Good night, Doctor Watson.”

How long they’d been in front of the Baker Street flat, John didn’t know.

“Any chance I’ll get you to call me ‘John’?”

“Next time. Perhaps.”

“Good night, Mycroft.”

John heard the melody float down to the pavement and, looking up, saw the familiar silhouette in the window.

Then she took a deep breath, straightened the knocker, and pushed through the door.


	3. Eye to Eye

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Takes place during an alternate version of "The Great Game," the shooting-the-wall bit and the Bruce-Partingon Progamme subplot, but no Moriarty.

“Look at me, Sherlock.”

Sherlock lowered the violin and bow and turned, and John pondered, not for the first time, what kind of genetic pairing would produce one human offspring with eyes of chocolate brown and a second, grey like a summer storm.

“Mycroft wears coloured contacts,” said Sherlock.

John shook her head and then repeated her original question. “What do you want?”

“What does Mycroft want?”

“No and no. Deduce whatever you will, but I am not telling you. Ask your sister if you’re so keen to know and can’t tell from the way I’ve tied my shoelaces.”

“You didn’t have sex with her tonight.”

John’s eyebrows rose. “What? Right atop the Dover sole? With Lord Nelson and the stuffed owls looking down on us, disapprovingly?” She laughed.

“You had the duck, not the fish.”

“That’s brilliant, but, you’re evading the question. Again. You said ‘married to your Work.’ You said ‘not your area.’ That screams platonic to me, but it’s a proven fact that I’m the idiot of this household so if I’m being an idiot about this, I want to know. And in case you’re wondering, I think you’re fantastic, I think you’re beautiful, but pining is really not my cup of tea, so I’d prefer you to be honest with me, even if you’re not sure. We can be flatmates and colleagues and friends; that’s more than enough, more than some get in a lifetime. Or…”

“Or what? You’ll shag us both?!”

That was the question, wasn’t it?

“Shagging’s a long way away, but if that’s what you and I want and what she and I want. I mean, it seems a little…and I have no idea how it would work in practice, but…yeah.”

Sherlock turned back toward the window.

Now John had a considerable amount of experience deciphering what most people would regard as unintelligible speech, what with patients’ mutterings and Harry’s drunken slurring and being raised in a family where proper enunciation was frowned upon, so she heard Sherlock’s words, but she was not sure she understood their meaning.

“‘Mycroft’s first’?”

Sherlock’s head whipped ‘round, and John’s followed her laser-sight gaze to her own body. Instinctively John’s fingers brushed the left side of her chest, right over her heart, where beneath layers of wool and cotton, two words were inscribed on the slope of her breast.

John blinked. “Did it occur to you—?”

“Yes,” Sherlock snapped, “Everything that has _ever_ occurred to you has, in fact, occurred to me. Probably before I was seven.”

“Mycroft was born first. Hell, maybe it’s alphabetical. I mean, there are dozens of reasons why her name might be first. It doesn’t mean that you’re less than her, Sherlock. At least not to me. You’re not the same, but you’re both my soulmate. And given what I’ve seen of your spectacular sibling rivalry, I’m surprised that you’d defer to her on anything. Especially something this important."

Their eyes locked.

John waited.

“I don’t know…” began Sherlock slowly.

“…well, I know that’s the truth because you admitting that you don’t know something…”

Sherlock ignored her and continued, “…if I could…share…you.”

“Oh.”

With lips pursed, John nodded and studied a spot on the rug.

What else was there to say?

“Tea?”

* * *

John looked up.

Another twenty minutes? Fuck!

John took out her phone. News of the day. How could Sherlock stand to read from a screen all the time? John’s eyes burned and she longed for a nice, wrinkly, crinkly newspaper. One where she could lick her finger and turn a page instead of scrolling, scrolling, scrolling…

Jesus Christ. John stared at the image. What a world!

She dropped her phone in her pocket, and when she finally reached her destination and surfaced, she made a call.

“Doctor Watson.”

“Hi, Mycroft.”

“What can I do for you?”

“I saw this horrible photo on the internet and I think you said something about Syria last week and I just wanted to see if you were okay.”

Silence.

John continued, “It’s disturbing. Refugees. Dead children.”

“Immigration reform is not really my bailiwick, Doctor Watson.”

“Right. So, how are you?”

Sigh. “Do you require my _assistance_ , Doctor Watson?”

“No, I just was thinking of you and wondering how you were. Isn’t that what soulmates do? Ones that don’t have access to CCTV, of course.”

In the ensuing silence, John let her embarrassment curdle into agitation. She was nearing the Baker Street flat and decided to cut her losses.

“Forget it. Sorry to interrupt your day. Take care.” _Click_.

John’s agitation did not have long to fester, however; as she took the stairs, gun shots rang out from inside the flat.

“What the _hell_ are you doing?” she yelled.

“BORED!”

* * *

“Where are you going?” asked Sherlock, looking over her shoulder.

Head in the fridge. Browning emptied into the wall. 0 for 2 in the soulmate game, Watson.

Time for a time out.

“Out,” said John, putting on her jacket. “Need some air.”

* * *

Quiet, calm, peaceful. It was bloody hateful. And a bit nippy. Sherlock flipped up the collar of her coat. And if a nice murder wouldn’t come to her, well, she’d go look for one. And if her path happened to take her by the pub that had become John’s local, well, that was just a lazy universe.

Two surreptitious glances through the pub window, however, told Sherlock that John was not there.

Of course.

She marched on.

* * *

“Sherlock!”

Sherlock pushed inside. “Where is she?”

“Who?” asked Mycroft.

Sherlock glared.

“Not here, Sherlock. Do you mean to say that in less than a fortnight, you’ve managed to lose our soulmate? Oh, I see. Not lose, _drive away_. This wouldn’t have anything to do with two complaints filed with police today about gunfire in the vicinity of 221 Baker Street? Or maybe, yes, it is the 15 th, isn’t it?”

“I saw her phone. She called you. Not a very long conversation, and she definitely did _not_ want to talk about it. How difficult is it, Mycroft, pretending to be human?”

Mycroft growled, “You tell me.”

“Find. Her.”

“Any reason to suspect she’s in actual danger?”

Sherlock looked away and said offhandedly, “Mrs. Hudson said she should have wrapped herself up a bit more.”

Mycroft rolled her eyes. “One moment,” she sighed and left the room.

* * *

Thirty seconds later, Sherlock pushed through the study door. “Where is she?!”

Mycroft was standing behind her desk, looking at a computer screen.

“She’s at Doctor Sawyer’s for the evening.”

They stared at each other for a long moment, and then Mycroft clicked the window closed and said quietly,

“We must do better.”

* * *

John rubbed the back of her neck as she came up the stairs. It was probably her imagination, but she thought she saw both occupants of the room relax slightly as she entered.

“How’s Sarah, John? How was the lilo?” asked Sherlock brightly.

“Sofa, Sherlock. It was the sofa,” corrected Mycroft.

John felt Sherlock’s eyes rake up and down her body. “Oh, yes,” she conceded with reluctance.

“How…?” asked John, then she shook her head. “Never mind.” She made for the kitchen, but remembering the head in the fridge, thought better of it and, seeing as Mycroft was in _her_ chair, pulled a straight chair from the desk and sat facing the two of them.

“I can’t,” said Sherlock, turning her attention back to Mycroft.

“Can’t”?

“The stuff I’ve got on is just too big. I can’t spare the time.”

“Never mind your usual trivia. This is of national importance.” Mycroft turned to John and smiled blandly. “Perhaps you can get through to her, John.”

“Doubtful,” said John.

Mycroft picked up a folder from the side-table beside offered it to Sherlock, who simply glared at her. Then Mycroft twisted her lips in a strange grimace and offered the folder to John.

She took it.

“Andrew West, known as Westie to his friends,” said Mycroft. “A civil servant, found dead on the tracks at Battersea Station this morning with his head smashed in.”

“Jumped in front of a train?” asked John.

“Seems the logical assumption.”

“But, you wouldn’t be here if it was just an accident,” said John.

“The M.O.D. is working on a new missile defence system, the Bruce-Partington Programme, it’s called. The plans for it were on a memory stick.”

John flicked through the documents in the folder and sniggered. “That wasn’t very clever.”

“It’s not the only copy. But it is secret. And missing.”

“Top secret?”

“Very. We think West must have taken the memory stick. We can’t possibly risk it falling into the wrong hands. Those plans have got to be found.”

“If you’re so keen, why don’t _you_ investigate it?” interjected Sherlock.

“No, no. I can’t possibly be away from the office for any length of time. The Prime Minister has asked for my consultation on a delicate Middle Eastern matter, the mitigation of any negative ramifications of certain humanitarian gestures.” She turned to John. ”Well, you don’t need to know about that, do you? Besides, a case like this, it requires,” she twisted her lips for a second time and stared at the handle of her umbrella, “legwork.”

“Legwork,” repeated Sherlock. “Well then, John’s your man. She’ll investigate.”

“What?!” exclaimed John.

Sherlock shrugged. “You know what I do. Off you go.”

“It’s of _national importance_ , Sherlock!” protested John.

“You were a solider…” said Mycroft, tilting her head.

“And a doctor,” added Sherlock quickly.

John looked at Mycroft. “Wait, you’re okay with this?!”

“If Sherlock is too _busy_ …”

“I am,” insisted Sherlock.

“Then it’s settled. I’m afraid I must dash to an appointment,” said Mycroft, rising and turning towards John. “But I can provide a more detailed briefing later this afternoon, after you’ve had a chance to peruse the file.”

“Just to be clear, you both trust me with this?” asked John, looking from one sister to another.

They met her gaze and spoke in unison.

“Yes.”

John shrugged and then smiled. “Alright! My first solo case! Wow!”

“Until this afternoon,” said Mycroft with a nod. She made for the top of the stair

“Oh, Mycroft,” said John, eyes skimming one of documents in the folder. Mycroft stopped and turned back. “I hope your appointment is with a dentist.”

Mycroft blinked.

John looked up and smiled. “You should get that tooth looked at, love.”

Sherlock laughed.

* * *

Mycroft entered her office, report in hand. John stood up and turned and nervously tugged at the bottom of her suit jacket.

She’s wearing a suit, thought Mycroft. Her best suit. _That’s_ her best suit.

How unfortunate.

“John. Thank you for agreeing to come here. My schedule is quite full today.”

“No problem. I’ve read the file. Any more to add? About the dead man?”

“Twenty-seven; a clerk at Vauxhall Cross – er, MI6. He was involved in the Bruce-Partington Programme in a minor capacity. Security checks A-OK. No known terrorist affiliations or sympathies. Last seen by his fiancée at ten thirty yesterday evening.”

“Right. He was found at Battersea, yes? So he got on the train.”

“No.”

“No?”

“He had an Oyster card.”

A sharp pain shot from Mycroft’s jaw into her brain and, for a single instant, blinded her. The man had said ‘root canal.’ Ugh. Dentists. No matter how much they were vetted, it was still a vulnerability, to recline in a chair and have some vile man put his fingers in one’s mouth. Not to mention the administration of anaesthetics. Mycroft quickly closed her eyes and turned away from John. She leant on the edge of her desk and said weakly, “...but it hadn’t been used. Excuse me, Doctor, I neglected to ask if you’d care for tea. We have a modest assortment, including a very fine white Earl Grey.”

“Mycroft, please. You’re not well.”

Mycroft sensed a hand hovering near her arm.

A thought distracted her. Touch. What would her soulmate’s touch feel like? The answer was obvious.

Home.

A second stab of pain brought Mycroft back to herself.

Ugh! This soulmate business was a weakness! Caring was _not_ an advantage!

She stiffened and kept her back to John. “There was no ticket on the body, so how did he end up with a bashed-in brain on the tracks at Battersea? That is the question! If you require anything further, Doctor, please contact Anthea.”

And without meeting John’s, no doubt nauseatingly _concerned_ , gaze, Mycroft turned, nodded, and left the room. But even as she fled, the thought occurred.

Must do better.

* * *

It was evening when John returned home. She found Sherlock curled in a ball on the sofa, a tangled mass of dark hair, dressing gown, and blanket.

She went to the kitchen.

**Interviewed fiancée. JW**

**Excellent. MH**

**Tooth ok? JW**

**Much better. Thank you. Apologies for earlier. MH**

John turned toward the sofa and snapped a photo with her phone.

**Remedy for this? JW**

John read the reply. Her eyebrows rose and she nodded. She put the tea tin back in the cupboard.

* * *

Some minutes later, John held a mug out.

“Drink this. You’ll feel better.”

One grey eye peeked out.

John said softly, “There’s only so much you can hide from the woman who does your laundry, Sherlock. I’m sorry you’re hurting. Let me know if I can help.”

There was a snarl, but a whip-like hand snatched the mug.

A sip. A grunt.

“You’re welcome.”

* * *

The next morning found John walking along the railway lines.

“So this is where West was found?” she asked the Tube guard.

“Yeah. You gonna be long?”

“I might be.”

“You with the police, then?”

“Sort of.”

“I hate ’em.”

“The police?”

“No. Jumpers.”

“Yeah,” said John, looking down, fingering the wool. “So does my flatmate, but they’re comfortable. And warm. The colour’s a bit…”

“People who chuck themselves in front of trains. Selfish bastards.”

“Oh. Well, that’s one way of looking at it.” She squatted and studied the track.

“I mean it. It’s all right for them. It’s over in a split second, strawberry jam all over the lines. What about the drivers, hmm? They’ve gotta live with it, haven’t they?”

John ran her fingers along the track, then lifts his hand to look at it. “Yeah, I love strawberry jam, blackberry’s pretty good, too. Not too fond of marmalade, but, hey, speaking of strawberry jam, there’s no blood on the line.” She stood up. “Has it been cleaned off?”

“No, there wasn’t that much.”

“You said his head was smashed in.”

“Well, it was, but there wasn’t much blood. Well, I’ll leave you to it then. Just give us a shout when you’re off.”

“Right,” said John. The guard walked away, and John squat again, muttering to herself, “Andrew West got on the train somewhere. Or did he? No ticket on the body. How did he end up here?”

Beside John, the points changed, and one of the tracks slid sideways into a new layout.

“Points!” she exclaimed.

“Points,” repeated a voice behind her.

John startled; then she stood up and turned.

“Knew you’d get there eventually,” said Sherlock. “West wasn’t killed here; that’s why there was so little blood.”

“How long have you been following me?”

“Since you left the flat. I’m feeling better. Thank you.” Sherlock gave a small smile. “Come on. Got a bit of burglary to do.”

* * *

As they walked, Sherlock continued talking, “The missile defence plans haven’t left the country, otherwise Mycroft’s people would have heard about it. Which means whoever stole the memory stick can’t sell it or doesn’t know what to do with it. My money’s on the latter.”

“Where are we going?” asked John.

“Joe Harrison’s flat. He’s the brother of West’s fiancée. He stole the memory stick; killed his prospective brother-in-law.”

When they got to the flat, Sherlock picked the lock. She went immediately to the stairs. John followed. She entered a bedroom and gestured out a window to the roof extending over a garden and the train track just beyond. Sherlock studied tiny red-brown spots on the paint on the window sill.

John peered over her shoulder. “Why’d he do it?” she whispered.

The front door slammed. Sherlock stood. “Let’s ask him.”

John moved quickly to the top of the stairs, reaching a hand to the back of her jeans.

When the man saw her, he picked up his bike as if the throw it at her.

She aimed the Browning at him and said in her best Hollywood-cowboy drawl,

“Don’t bring a bicycle to a gunfight, son.”

* * *

As the taxi sped towards Baker Street, John handed Sherlock the memory stick. “Here, you give it to Mycroft. You solved the case.”

Sherlock slipped in her coat pocket. “You did very well, John.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah,” said Sherlock. She met John's gaze and smiled.

John blushed. “Guess I can’t really write it up for the blog, though.”

“I don’t know. Change a few names and few details, add few embellishments in my favour…”

“…one or two to your detriment…,” teased John.

Sherlock nodded, “…and your readership will eat it up.”

“Our readership,” said John.

“Our readership,” repeated Sherlock softly.

They passed some minutes in silence. Sherlock took out her phone and began reading. John said,

“Sherlock, your sister likes books.”

“Mm?”

“She got a favourite?”

“Mm. And there’s even one volume at the flat.”

* * *

John yawned and stretched out on the sofa. “Eight volumes!” she sighed. She turned the book over and looked at the cover. “ _The History of the Peloponnesian War_. Alright, Mr. Thucydides, here we go.” She opened the book and blew the dust off of it. Then she licked her finger and, turning a page, muttered, “I’ve _got_ to find a film version of this.”

* * *

Mycroft stared.

At John, snoring open-mouthed. At the book on the floor beside her slack arm.

Sherlock handed her the memory stick. Mycroft slipped it in an inside pocket of her coat and nodded sharply toward the stairs.

They both descended silently to the street.

“You told her about that,” said Mycroft.

“And your eye colour. You told her about the milk.”

Mycroft nodded. She looked up at the curtained window. “Please convey to her my appreciation.”

“Convey it to her yourself. A knighthood is out of the question, but…”

“Perhaps a token of gratitude would not go amiss. Say, an addition to her wardrobe…”

“Something _not_ the colour of gruel,” Sherlock said quickly.

“No,” said Mycroft, frowning. “Something that might compliment the colour of her…”

They looked at each other for a moment, and then, without so much as a nod, went their separate ways, Mycroft to the waiting vehicle and Sherlock back inside the flat.


	4. Voice to Voice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The trip to Belarus part of "The Great Game."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A big thank you to all the subscribers and supporters of this wee story. Here's another chapter much sooner than anticipated.

Mycroft checked her watch and did the simplest of calculations. It would be nine o’ clock in the morning in London. There would be no more auspicious day or time of day to—what was Sherlock’s foul phrase?— _pretend to be human_.

She poured two fingers of amber liquid into a glass tumbler full of ice and stepped out onto the balcony. She took a small sip and set the glass on an ironwork table. She removed her suit jacket and hung it on the back of a matching ironwork armchair, unbuttoned her shirt collar and cuffs, and rolled up her sleeves.

_Clink!_

The melting ice made a quiet noise as it shifted in the glass. She scowled at it. Coward. Only the weak of character needed liquid fortification to perform the most perfunctory of social gestures.

She recalled John’s words.

_I just was thinking of you and wondering how you were._

That was all she had to say. Perfectly sound. Perfectly polite.

She fished her phone from her jacket pocket.

“Doctor Watson.”

“Mycroft.” The voice was thick with sleep.

Miscalculation! Not auspicious, calamitous! Abort!

“My apologies for waking you.”

“Nah, what time is it? Ha! Seeing as how I have the flat to myself, I thought I’d have a lie-in, and have a lie-in, I did! Wow! I haven’t slept this late in years!” She sniffed loudly and yawned. “How are you? Where are you?”

Mycroft interpreted the faint background noises. Sitting up. Stretching.

“It’s 1 o’clock in the morning here.”

“Huh. I’m not awake enough to do the math or geography on that one, so your secret location is still secret. Is it warm?”

Mycroft unfastened another shirt button with one hand and reached for her drink. “Insufferably,” she said after swallowing.

“Hotel nice?”

Mycroft glanced behind her and shrugged.

“Okay. How about the food?”

Mycroft peered into her glass. She tilted it, and the ice swirled. She shrugged again. Then she realized that she had not yet voiced a reply.

John laughed. “Well, I know you’re at least drinking something nice.”

Pretending to be human, indeed. Pretending to be a _rude_ human. This had been a mistake. Abort!

“Doctor Watson…”

“Thanks for the suit. Guess my ol’ tweed was past its prime, eh? It was a gift from my Gran, who’s been dead, Christ, an awful long time. It had got a bit snug, I admit.”

“Middle age finds us all,” said Mycroft, running a hand down her stomach.

“I don’t know, you Holmes women seem pretty timeless. Maybe an ancestor of yours made a deal with the Devil.”

Is she flirting? Inconclusive. But she’s definitely smiling and falling back on the bed. Rolling to her side.

“Quite possible. There are quite a few rogue fruit on the Holmes family tree,” said Mycroft.

“Speaking of rogue fruit…” Not flirting, Mycroft decided, just cordial pleasantries. “…Sherlock’s in Belarus for a few days.”

“Open-and-shut domestic murder. Not worth her time. In all probability, she’s already initiated her return journey. She may be delayed in Paris,” said Mycroft.

John grunted; then, unexpectedly, her voice fell to a purr.

“What colour are your eyes, Mycroft Holmes?”

She _was_ flirting.

What now?

Mycroft Holmes did not flirt. Mycroft Holmes did not know _how_ to flirt, that is to say, not genuinely; the tawdrier bits of her fieldwork days were far, far behind her. She took a long sip and then said,

“Doctor Watson…”

“Ah, if it’s still ‘Doctor Watson,’ I don’t think I’m going to get an answer.” John yawned again. This _had_ been an error in judgement if Mycroft’s words produced such unhealthy mix of disappointment and ennui. Was she not able to volley the most innocuous of banter? Pretend to be human, indeed.

“I merely wished to inquire as to your well-being.” Mycroft winced; there was no mistaking the leave-taking in her tone.

“Thank you. And thanks again for the suit. Be safe, wherever you are.”

“I wish you a pleasant day.”

Mycroft stared at her phone and cursed herself.

Coward!

“… _Mycroft_ …”

It was a groan. Followed by a squeaking of bedsprings. And a rustling of bedding.

Mycroft had not clicked off her phone. And, as was more than evident now, neither had John.

Damn it! Here was her second chance. Into the fray!

“John?”

“SHIT! Shit, shit, shit! Mycroft, you’re still there?”

“Yes. Are you…?” How to phrase the question delicately. _Was_ there a way to phrase the question delicately? No, there was not.

“I’m fine. I just, uh, stubbed my toe.”

What are horrible liar you are, John Watson.

“It’s…fine. It’s…all…fine,” said Mycroft slowly. “But lying to one’s soulmate is not advisable.”

Silence. She’s trying to decide her reaction. Embarrassment, pique, perhaps. Mycroft held her breath. And released it at the sound of John’s laughter. “Especially mine. Huh.” More squeaking and rustling. Her voice took on the feline quality of earlier. “Well, if you want to listen, you have to help.”

This was beyond flirting. Beyond banter. Mycroft gulped the last of the amber liquid. A sliver of ice slipped in her mouth, and she cracked it between her teeth.

“I fear that I am not well-versed in the type of repartee that might facilitate…”

“Ha! It’s not so much the words as your voice. Anything. That book you like. I never finished it, by the way.”

Thucydides! Surely she was jesting! Even the historian-general himself had warned that there was no romance to be had in his often insightful, but not exactly titillating, work.

“Please, Mycroft. It’s been a while. It won’t take much.”

John was apparently not the only one susceptible to certain intonations; Mycroft felt herself warming and then, despite misgivings that this was some sort of amusement at her expense, acquiescing.

“Very well,” she cleared her throat, “ _’Right, as the world goes, is only in question between equals in power, while the strong do what they can and the weak suffer what they must…”_

Mycroft’s recitation faltered; she pressed the receiver tightly to her ear so as not to miss any sign of mirth.

“ _Mycroft_.” No mirth. The word was clearly part plea, part sigh. Oh my. Mycroft was in the highly unusual and uncomfortable situation of being at a loss for words. Fortunately, the one word she chose seemed to be the right one.

“John….”

“YES! Yes, yes, love! Just that, just my name.”

“John.”

Then there was a soft muffled cry.

Mycroft was still waiting for the joke to be revealed, but all she heard was John’s breathing slowing. A thought occurred, if this was her soulmate’s reaction to the tiniest bit of Melian Dialogue, what effect might Sun Tzu produce? Or perhaps….

Mycroft was dragged from her speculation on the aphrodisiacal merits of various classical thinkers by John’s voice. She had been speaking to her.

“…want me to return the favour?”

Oh no.

“That won’t be necessary,” Mycroft said quickly.

Now was the giggling that Mycroft had been anticipating.

“Filthy girl! I figured you for a quiet one, but I didn’t even hear…oh.”

Mycroft picked a piece of ice from the glass and felt the burn between her fingers as it melted. She clarified, “I am not predisposed to such…”

John laughed. “Well, if you ever want me to tell you just what I’m thinking of, just let me know…I’d be under you, wouldn’t I? The first time at least…your skin on mine…I might even get to taste your sweat…”

There were a hundred phrases that Mycroft could’ve employed to halt the conversation, but the only word that occurred to her was,

“John.”

“Yeah, I’m here, love. Christ, you’d take me apart, wouldn’t you? Reduce me to a naked, begging mess before we even started.”

Images popped into Mycroft’s mind, accompanied by sounds. Herself. John. Hands. Mouths. Unzipping. Impatient growls. Clothing straining and then crumpling onto carpet. The first time. _The second!_

Mycroft found herself leaning against the arm of the chair, bending so that it dug into her at a precise angle.

“John,” she groaned as she began to rut, with minute thrusts against unyielding metal.

“I’m getting wet again, love. That voice of yours, saying my name, what it does to me. Christ, I’d love you to fuck me. Make me yours. _Please, Mycroft_.”

The final entreaty tipped Mycroft over the edge. She pinched her eyes closed and bit her lip as she came.

She was not sure how much time had passed before she trusted her own voice again.

“Doctor Watson…”

John sighed. “And that right there is the sure sign that my carriage has turned back into a pumpkin. Ah well, it was _very_ nice talking with you. Thank you so much for calling. Anytime, really. Good night, Mycroft.”

Dread began to seep into the crevices of Mycroft’s mind.

“Good night, Doctor Watson.”

It wasn’t even night there! Damn it!

Mycroft tapped the ‘end call’ button with exponentially more pressure than required.

Had she taken leave of her senses? Could she be more exposed, in every sense of the word? Here she was, in plain view, where anyone could see! Granted she was fully clothed and on the uppermost floor but still, there was always someone watching, Mycroft knew this for a fact as it was she—or extension of herself—who was oftentimes doing the watching.

Here she was—say the word, Mycroft, she scolded, say the common, common word—here she was _masturbating_ to the comically pornographic mutterings of someone an ocean away.

Not just someone.

Mycroft had long since resigned herself to the fact that she had one chink in her armour, and she accepted this single vulnerability because of an oath sworn many, many years ago, an oath that mattered more to her than, well, anything. So regardless of the acrimony or distance between them, Sherlock’s welfare was her first consideration. But two chinks? Two was not a vulnerability. Two was a _liability_. Two was exponentially more difficult to guard. To guard against what? her mind questioned, and she shushed it.

Mycroft swung her arm out, and the tumbler flew off the table and crashed on the stone floor. She looked down at the mess. At first glance, the shards of glass were almost indistinguishable from slivers of ice. But glass did not melt, did not evaporate, did not disappear, at the touch of something warm.

This was a mistake. This whole bloody soulmate business was a mistake.

Mycroft did not want to melt. Henceforth, she would be glass. Not ice.

* * *

Sherlock strode into the kitchen.

“Open-and-shut domestic murder. Not worth my time.”

John turned away, but not before Sherlock caught her smile.

Something had happened. Something was different.

Sherlock leaned closer and sniffed. Interesting.

John backed away. “You know even between soulmates there is such a thing as personal space.”

Sherlock grunted and swept by her. “You used my shampoo.” John had been distracted, very distracted, this morning.

By what?

“Maybe I missed you.”

Sherlock stared. Wholesale sentiment. Wholesale _false_ sentiment. John was one of the worst liars Sherlock had ever encountered, and not prone to lying, especially to Sherlock. But she was lying now. Deflection hinted at something significant, at least to John…

Sherlock glanced at the plastic bag in John’s hand. John’s hideous suit. Being donated to Oxfam. Because she had a new suit.

Mycroft!

Sherlock bit back a growl. Then her thoughts cooled. She had a card to play in this particular game as well. She waited until she was sure that John’s gaze was on her. Then, with a magician’s flourish, she produced a black lacquered tin from her coat and set it on the kitchen table. And walked away nonchalantly.

“Hello!” cried John, eyes lit like a child at Christmas. She scooped up the tin and read the gold calligraphy. “Ooo. Paris. Fancy.”

“Token of gratitude from the shop owner. I alerted her to a somewhat clever scheme to unload her of a portion of her inventory. ‘Somewhat,’ of course, because the thieves had the audacity to initiate their crime in my presence.” Sherlock huffed and rolled her eyes.

“What were you doing in a tea shop in the first place?” asked John, turning her head towards Sherlock. “Maybe _you_ missed _me_.”

John was…no matter how improbable Sherlock considered the conclusion, she couldn’t deny the evidence, the grin on the just-licked lips, the wiggle of the eyebrows, the teasing glint in the eyes… _flirting with her_.

This was new. Praise, yes, there had been much praise, almost from the beginning, and even the rare direct compliment not prompted by a display of mental acumen, _I think you’re fantastic, I think you’re beautiful_ , but nothing that might be construed as flirtation.

Until now.

And it only confirmed Sherlock’s suspicion that something of significance had occurred in her absence. Then it struck her, like blow to the sternum.

She had flirted with Mycroft. The horror!

She had flirted with Mycroft, and her efforts had been positively received, at minimum, and possibly, though Sherlock considered this the most improbable part of the whole situation, reciprocated.

Mycroft didn’t know how to flirt! Neither did Sherlock, well not genuinely, for a case, anything was possible, but that was all beside the point. Sherlock scowled.

John’s face fell, and she turned away.

That was not the right reaction. What was Mycroft’s horrid phrase? _Must do better_.

“May I?” asked John hesitantly, holding up the tin.

Sherlock made an impatient gesture. John was tedious sometimes, acting as if she were not Mistress of All Things Tea-Related at 221B. What would Sherlock do with tea, except give it to John to make?

John opened the tin and inhaled deeply. “That is good,” she said slowly, with eyes closed. Then she examined the tin again. “Says it’s evening tea. I was planning to make an omelette. I could make two and then we could…” She turned back to Sherlock with an expression of hopeful eagerness. “Are you eating?”

If Sherlock were a different Sherlock, right then and there, she would’ve closed the distance between them and wrapped John in the sides of her coat and smothered her with affection until they were both dizzy. Then she would’ve eaten any manner of egg concoction from John’s fork and drank evening tea with John curled in her lap. Where she belonged.

But Sherlock was not that Sherlock, she was this Sherlock, so she merely grunted, removed her coat, and whined, “The return journey was a tediously and inexcusably prolonged one.” Then she hung up her coat and strode down the hall.

* * *

As Sherlock showered, her thoughts returned to the always-hateful subject of her sister. How could Mycroft flirt? Mycroft was devoid of charm. What’s more, Mycroft was devoid of talent. Sherlock could affect charm, once again, for a case, all things were possible, but talent? Talent she had in spades. And it was her talent she would use to her advantage tonight.

* * *

The trip to Belarus had been a complete waste of time because it could not even distract John from making sly glances at the tea tin during its re-telling. In no time, omelettes were consumed, and plates were in the sink. Sherlock moved to the sitting room while John made tea. She took up her violin and launched into her own flirtation. She would use a voice infinitely more seductive than her own.

“Is that new?” asked John as she set a mug down on the small table. “It’s lovely.”

Sherlock grunted. She was always composing something. It helped her think. It helped her combat the monotony between cases and experiments, especially now that the cocaine and morphine were not as attractive as they had been in previous days. Days before John.

John went to the bookcase, and Sherlock’s song swelled in triumphant crescendo when John’s hand hovered over and passed over—Take that, Mycroft!— _The History of the Peloponnesian War_ in favour of _The Moonstone_. Then she settled lengthways on the sofa, with her tea and her bit of Victorian sleuthing, and sighed,

“What more could a girl ask for, really?”

Sherlock faced the window. When, in the reflection, she was sure that John had buried her face in the mug, she allowed herself the luxury of a smile. A genuine smile. She played on.

The soporific effect of the sofa on John was, by now, well-established, and it wasn’t long before the book was spread flat on her chest, and her eyes were drooping.

And that was when Sherlock Holmes began to flirt in earnest. She let the notes of the violin speak for her. Speak all she dare not. Through the melody, she inserted herself into John’s mind, into the sliver of consciousness between waking and dream.

_This is how I would touch you. And this is what I would say. And this is how we would move together._

_Like this. Like this. Like this._

And it was having its intending effect, Sherlock thought, as she paced to and fro in front of John. John’s pulse was elevated, her skin had become slightly flush, and then, with eyes closed, she reached out her hand, then both hands, reaching, reaching…

WHUMP!

John rolled off the sofa onto the floor.

She yelped and opened her eyes, wincing. She leaned up and reached under herself, producing the novel with tea dripping from the pages. She shifted to the other side and set the tipped mug of tea upright.

“Bloody hell!”

Sherlock stopped playing and loomed over her. John looked up, her expression clearly one of ‘What the hell just happened?’

“It’s a very moving piece,” said Sherlock dryly.

John fell back onto the river of spilled tea and howled with laughter. She rolled onto her side and continued to laugh until she had to wipe the tears from her eyes. Then she sniffed and looked up again at Sherlock.

“Christ, I missed you.”

Sherlock glowed inside. John had just given her something very, very precious. Not the mere sentiment, which Sherlock carefully wrapped in tissue paper and placed in the Very Fragile section of her Mind Palace for later consideration.

No, she had given her the same three words, said falsely and said truthfully, within the span of less than a couple of hours. It was like Rosetta stone. A key to future truths and future falsehoods from one John Watson. Plus, there was the marvel that she’d made John laugh; she’d made her blush; she’d made her smile.

What had John said? _What more could a girl ask for, really?_

John was struggling to her feet; Sherlock tucked her bow under her arm and extended her hand.

“I got it,” said John. “Thanks.”

Sherlock stared at the expanse of air at the end of her fingers. She realized much too late that she _wanted_ to touch John’s hand, but the moment had passed. John was hurrying to the kitchen for a rag.

Another day, perhaps.

When the spill was more or less cleaned up, John smiled again at her and said,

“Thank you, Sherlock. Good night.”

“You’re welcome, John. Good night.”

Sherlock turned away and resumed her composition, which if her only mind, was now provisionally entitled, _For John_. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter will be Hand to Hand, and will not likely appear until the end of the month, but I hope to have (a pair, if the flesh is a willing as the spirit!) Halloween offerings then, too!


	5. Hand to Hand

John looked at her phone and sighed. “It’s official: your sister’s avoiding me.”

“Lucky you.”

* * *

“Doctor Watson.”

“Hello, Anthea. Mycroft in?”

“Ms. Holmes is in a meeting.”

The door behind him opened, and Mycroft appeared, document in hand. “I need the most current version of this…”

“Hello, Mycroft. How’ve you been?” John frowned. “You look a little peaked. Under the weather?”

“I’m quite well, in fact, Doctor Watson. And you?”

“Great. Just great. I, uh….” John raised a brown paper bag.

“I fear that there are pressing matters that make it impossible for me to spare time for lunch today.”

“Well, that’s okay. I just brought dessert.” John opened the bag and turned it towards Mycroft. “A nice sample from that bakery you mentioned. We could just have a bite. A few minutes. Catch up, you know.”

“I truly have no appetite. And no time.” Her bland smile was slightly crooked on one side, and a faint sheen of perspiration erupted at her hairline. “Please, feel free to make an appointment.” She gestured towards Anthea and then pivoted clumsily. She stepped back into her office, gripping the doorframe as she passed. John threw a worried glance at Anthea. He gave an almost imperceptible nod. John crowded behind Mycroft, following her into her office and shutting the door.

“Doctor Watson!”

“I haven’t heard from you in weeks. If what happened on the phone upset you or if you’ve changed your mind about…. Mycroft, what is wrong?”

The documents in Mycroft’s hand fluttered briefly. She quickly dropped them on the desk and clasped both hands behind her back. Sweat beaded on her brow. She turned back to John.

“Doctor Watson…”

"Jesus Christ!"

* * *

Warm. She was warm.

Was she dead? No, but the pain? The pain was gone. And she was warm. She did not want to open her eyes. Not yet. Four senses were enough. For now. She listened. Beeping. Breathing. Hospital. She was in hospital. Her mouth was dry; her tongue was covered in a coarse paste. She inhaled: disinfectant and John. Ah. That explained it. The warmth. Her hand. Surrounded by John’s hands. She had been right. It did feel like home, her soulmate’s touch. She had the urge to bottle the sensation and keep it in the cellar like a prize vintage. Mummy had held her hand. Sherlock, too, once upon a time. Hand-in-hand. Tethered. Linked. Connected. Bound and bonded. We are in this life together. You and me. Us.

Not alone.

‘Not alone’ was so long ago it might as well have been a fairy tale. Or a dream. Or a faded sepia photograph. And yet, here it was, despite her cowardly circumvention, despite her juvenile protests, despite her icy disposition and poor circulation. Cold hands, warm heart. Not true. Here was a warm hand, two of them, in fact, clasping her one. Here was a warm heart, pumping enough blood to heat them both.

She must pry her eyes open. She must wet her mouth and squeeze breath from the accordion of her lungs. She must speak in order to apologize, to set things right.

To do better.

She blinked. And blinked. And blinked. And with each open-and-shut, her vision grew clearer.

A head bent as if in prayer. Two hands enveloping hers.

Warmth. Home. John.

Her tongue moved, counting teeth and dampening sandpapery lips. She forced air up through her throat and out her mouth.

The head turned, and if she had had one volume of auxiliary breath with which to gasp, it would’ve been expired.

The eyes that met hers were flinty, the expression stone.

Hard. Unyielding. Cold.

She watched her hand fall limply on the bed and thought,

I am unmoored.

“You don’t trust me as a friend? You don’t want me as a lover? Fine.” The hint of a snarl disappeared as quickly as it arose. “But, just for the record, I _was_ awake the day they covered appendicitis in medical school!”

John stood, turned, and headed toward the door.

“John.”

A mirthless chuckle, the shake of a head, a door opening. “It’s _Doctor_ Watson,” she said, without looking back.

* * *

John marched down the corridor; her fists clenched and unclenched in time with her stride. She turned a corner and suddenly, Sherlock was by her side, pushing the handle of an overnight bag into her hand.

“Case. Victoria’s Station.”

“Let’s go.”

* * *

 

“This way, Sherlock!”

“No, this way!”

“What?”

“Come on, John! He’s getting away! Short cut!”

“Short cut?” John muttered. “Over the rickety rope-and-plank bridge that spans the deep ravine and the icy river. Sure! Why not?!”

Sherlock flew across the bridge. John hesitated.

“Come on, John!”

John took a deep breath. “Hail Mary, full of grace…” She kept her eyes on Sherlock, who was waiting on the other side, beckoning her wildly.

“Almost there, almost there. Wait, what?” She was falling. She looked back. One rope had snapped.

“SHIT! SHIT!”

She scrambled forward, gripping the oppposite rope tightly with both hands.

“JOHN!”

John jumped just as the bridge gave way entirely. She caught Sherlock’s outstretched hands and felt herself being hoisted, then dragged, face first onto wet ground.

“Go!” she urged. “I’m b-b-behind you.”

Sherlock released John’s hands and scrambled to her feet. John panted and watched her disappear down the wooded path. Then she stared back at the space where the bridge had been.

* * *

Soon John’s wobbling turned to a slow jog and then to a sprint, but by the time she reached the clearing, a phalanx of police was already forming, and at the centre of the swarm was Sherlock, sitting atop a man.

When she saw John, she grinned. “We got our man!”

As John approached the scene, a man in a trench coat said, “Alright, Miss. He’s our man now.” Sherlock stood, and the officers encircled the man, handcuffing him and leading him away.

John looked around, frowning. “Sherlock, that wasn’t a short cut. It would’ve been quicker to come over the meadow.”

“Simple mistake. No matter. We got him!”

* * *

“You’re thinking very loudly. It’s distracting."

“I’m reading.”

“You haven’t read anything for the last twenty minutes.”

John lowered the newspaper and folded it. Sherlock was tapping her mobile with her thumb.

John leaned forward, elbows on knees, and said, “Sherlock Holmes doesn’t make simple mistakes. You poured over those maps on the way down. A one-woman GPS. So either you’re trying to kill me…”

Sherlock snorted.

“Which, I admit, would be a very round-about way of doing it or…” John shook her head slowly. “Or you just wanted to hold my hand and couldn’t think of any sane way to make that happen. So, how’d I do?”

Sherlock’s gaze was still glued to her screen. “Satisfactory.”

“Did you like it?” asked John. “The hand-holding bit, not the killing-me bit.”

Sherlock nodded.

“Okay,” John took a deep breath and stared out the window. “How about, going forward, you _ask_ to hold my hand or you can make some sort of subtle gesture, preferably of the non-life-endangering variety…”

“When?” asked Sherlock sharply. Now she was looking at John intently.

She doesn’t know the answer, thought John. She really doesn’t know.

John shrugged. “I don’t think there’s any etiquette per se, but times that come to mind are when watching telly or a film, though we haven’t braved the cinema together yet, have we? Or maybe drinking tea, after a case. Or…”

“On the way home from a case?”

John smiled. “Yeah.” She set the newspaper aside and moved to the seat beside Sherlock. “Like this.” She took Sherlock’s hand in her and laced their fingers. John rubbed her thumb along the side of Sherlock’s hand. “Good?”

“Good,” said Sherlock, smiling.

John leaned back in the seat and closed her eyes. “How much longer?”

“Ninety-six minutes.”

John hummed and squeezed Sherlock’s hand. Then she promptly fell asleep.

* * *

Mycroft stared her mobile.

Delete it. Do not open it.

She opened it.

The image of two hands, clasped, atop the arm of a…Mycroft squinted…seat in a train.

 **Idiot. SH**  

 

 

 


	6. Hand to Waist & Hand to Shoulder

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Inspired by a line from "The Sign of Three" episode. When a TV scriptwriter (through a character) says that something _can't_ be done, the fanfic writer is obligated to respond, "We'll see about that..."

“Sorry.”

“Let’s try again. From the top.”

“It’s not working, Sherlock.”

“If you would just concentrate.”

“Yeah, for the record, this is me concentrating. You’re going to have to find another way to infiltrate the studio. I’m not getting it.”

John shrugged out of their embrace and grabbed her jacket from the hook.

“We’re out of milk. I’m going to the shops.”

* * *

Shoulders back, chin up, arms swinging, John strode past the vehicle idling outside the flat, muttering

“No way. Nope. Not on your life.”

“Doctor Watson.”

John turned. Anthea was standing behind the driver’s door.

“No!”

“She doesn’t know I’m here,” he said.

“Then I’m afraid you’re out of a job, mate.”

“I know.” He sighed. “She’s working too hard.”

“Perpetual state, I’d expect. S’why we all sleep at night under the banner of freedom.”

“She’s hurting herself.”

John sighed and then said, “Also not a really a surprise.”

His gaze turned hard.

“This is different. Please come.”

“She doesn’t want to see me.”

“You deserve each other! You’re both so bloody pig-headed! You know, I was just getting used to the fact that I no longer had to erase ‘Samuel’ and write ‘Mycroft” on my chest with greasepaint every morning.”

John frowned.

“You don’t think my parents actually named me ‘Anthea’? Do something before she does any more damage to herself.”

John stared and then stomped around to the front passenger door.

* * *

Sherlock watched the car disappear around the corner. Then she let the curtain fall back into place.

* * *

John followed Anthea down the dark corridors and stopped at the threshold to Mycroft’s office.

The only light in the room was the eerie glow of a computer screen. Mycroft’s head was bent to the desk, resting on documents. A fountain pen was still clasped in her hand. John moved behind her and put two heavy hands on her shoulders.

“Mycroft.”

Mycroft sniffed and raised her head slightly.

“Time to go home, love. Time to rest.”

Mycroft grunted.

“Come on. Let’s go home. Everything can wait.”

Mycroft stood. John’s hand hovered just at her waist.

“Doctor Watson. John.”

“Yeah, I’m here, love, and I’m not going anywhere.”

John’s hand moved to the small of Mycroft’s back, and with the gentlest of touches, she guided her out of the room.

* * *

John dropped a set of pyjamas on the bed beside Mycroft. Then she crossed her arms over her chest and walked towards adjoining toilet, saying, “Your scars are your own. Dress yourself.”

Minutes later, Mycroft cleared her throat.

John emerged, arms still crossed. “Now you’re going to sleep,” she said firmly. “For at least eight hours. And when you wake, we’ll talk.” She pulled a heavy armchair closer to the bed and sat. “And if you try to get up to do anything but piss or shit, I will wrestle you to that bed.”

Mycroft frowned. “Captain? Doctor?”

“Soulmate. Sleep.”

* * *

Mycroft heard the beep.

John did not. She was still in the armchair, head tilted back at an awkward angle, mouth open, snoring.

Six hours. Two more than Mycroft had anticipated. Interesting.

Sherlock filled the bedroom doorway. Her movements were slow and deliberate, but her eyes flashed at Mycroft with barely-contained fury. Such a funny girl! She had always been a walking contradiction. Much like Mycroft herself.

She scooped John up in her arms to faint mumbles of protest.

“Wh—? Oh, Sher—. M’sorry can’t dance.”

“Hush.”

Descending footsteps. No beep of the security system. Curious. Opening and shutting of the guest bedroom door. Ascending footsteps.

Ah, she wants to do battle, does she?

“Remove John from her home again for the purpose of conscripting her as your nanny,” Sherlock hissed, “and I will eviscerated you.”

“I’d love to see you try. You know, Sherlock, we are not so different, you and I. One day you will find yourself in my position, and when you do, I will recall your words to me, and they will sting. Badly.”

“You could at least do John the courtesy of allowing her to rest comfortably while you come down with your case of the vapours!”

Mycroft sighed.

“You have two hours to make this right,” said Sherlock.

“You do not issue ultimatums to me! Or her!”

“Two hours,” repeated Sherlock. Then she turned and strode out of the room.

* * *

Cutlery and glassware clinking. The aroma of a full English. Mycroft’s stomach growled.

John appeared carrying a tray laden with plates. “You know for someone who looks like they haven’t eaten a good meal in weeks, you certainly have a well-stocked larder.”

“I shall extend your compliments to my house manager.”

“You’ve got one of those? Of course you do. Must add that to my CV. Here.” John set the tray across Mycroft’s lap.

“Doctor Watson, I could not possibly consume such an abundance of…”

“Good thing we’re sharing, then.” She perched on the edge of the bed and snatched a piece of bacon. “Because I’m starving.” She bit and chewed, grinning.

* * *

John spread jam on a piece of toast.

“So the phone sex spooked you bad, eh?”

“I assure you that it had nothing to do with your portion of the conversation. I am simply not accustomed to feeling that…exposed.” Mycroft set her cup down. “I’m sorry, John.”

“Me, too. Can we start over?”

“I’d rather not.”

“Oh,” said John, looking down and nodding.

“I mean to say, I think we should move forward from where we are. Not go back. And despite recent evidence to the contrary, you are essential to me.” She lifted the tray and set it aside. “And I’ll prove it. Come.” She slid out of the bed and, after donning a heavy dressing gown and slippers, padded down the stairs. John followed.

* * *

John stared at the three documents on the desk.

“I am, at the end of the day, a civil servant,” Mycroft began. “And as such, I have an official file, not all of which is fabrication. This is one section of it.”

John picked up the first document. She scanned the top page and then flipped to the second.

“I’m your emergency contact.”

“Yes.”

“Not Sherlock?”

“No.”

“And this is…” John’s eyes went to the second document.

“Lasting power of attorney. For health and welfare. Sherlock is most ill-equipped for that kind of decision-making.”

John nodded. “I can see your point on that one. That’s your will?!”

“Yes.”

“I don’t want your money, Mycroft!”

Mycroft smiled. “Which is why you are an ideal benefactor. It won’t all be wine and roses, however. You’ll have to share stewardship responsibilities with Sherlock. I shan’t envy you, even from my grave. These were all prepared weeks ago, and I have not entertained a single misgiving about my decisions since then.”

John blinked. She set the document in her hand on the desk and sat down. “I’m…touched? Honoured? Both words seem a bit wrong and inadequate.”

“And, on a more personal note…”

Mycroft sat in the chair behind the desk. She took a deep breath and bent forward.

“Mycroft?”

When Mycroft lifted her head, there were two wet translucent spots on the desk. She blinked like an owl.

“Holy Fuck!” exclaimed John. “They’re…”

“Distracting. And memorable, which is the last thing a field agent wants in a physical feature.”

“…the most gorgeous pair of blue eyes I’ve ever seen!”

Mycroft blushed. “The hair is also darkened a bit to correspond…”

“You’re a ginger, aren’t you, gorgeous?” John licked her lips and leaned forward across the desk until she cupped Mycroft’s jaw with one hand.                                                                                                                                                                                                          

“I prefer the term auburn…” said Mycroft. She tilted her head and fixed her eyes on John’s mouth as it moved closer.

_DING, DING, DING…_

The grandfather clock in the corner of the study chimed.

Mycroft glanced at it and sighed. Then she covered John’s hand with her own and set it on the desk. “You’d best return to Baker Street, but we will resume this discussion at a later date.”

“You’d better believe we will.”

“Thank you, Doctor Watson.”

“My pleasure.” John picked up Mycroft’s hand and squeezed it. “Oh, and please don’t sack Anthea.”

“He will be put on full-pay administrative leave for a week pending a thorough performance review that will, no doubt, end in his re-instatement.”

John laughed and shut the door behind her.

* * *

“Sherlock, this is futile.”

“Close your eyes.”

“Alright, but I don’t see how this is going to be any different from the last try.”

“As usual, John, you’re wrong. This time I’ve called in the cavalry, so to speak.”

One of John’s hands was in Sherlock’s, then other rested on Sherlock’s shoulder. Sherlock’s free hand was at John’s waist. The music commenced.

“One, two, three, four. One, two, three, four.”

Then, John felt a hand on her shoulder and another at her waist and a voice behind her, echoing Sherlock.

“One, two, three, four. One, two, three, four.”

They began to move, and after a few graceful passes around the sitting room floor, John said,

“Well, what do you know? We _can_ all three dance.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next is kissing! Yea! No kiss of life, I promise!


	7. Mouth to Mouth & Hand to Head

“I’m so sorry, Sherlock. First kisses should be private, intimate, and romantic—not in front of half the Metropolitan Police Service. I know that I lost my temper, but it was maddening! Forget observing, can they not physically see?! There you were, like a goddess descended from Mount Olympus, handing them their whole case on a sodding platter! Anyone of them—bloody Donovan included—would be lucky to have you so much as glance their way!”

“I didn’t kiss you back.”

* * *

Sherlock maintained a stoic facade for the remainder of the taxi ride to Baker Street. Inwardly, however, she bubbled with glee. She had succeeded where so many throughout history had failed: she had restored virginity.

_I didn’t kiss you back._

John was displeased with their first kiss, and that needed to be remedied, post-haste. Never mind that Sherlock was elated. That the kiss had been very much public, in front of a bevy of her detractors, professional and otherwise, was wholly desirable in her eyes. It had been a bold declaration in a language that even the morons of Scotland Yard couldn’t fail to understand:

_Sherlock Holmes is wanted._

Not feared. Not admired. Not even respected.

_Wanted._

There had been Donovan’s remark, which given that Sherlock was mid-deductive spiel, she hadn’t actually heard, and then there had been John’s flush face and wild, angry eyes and John’s hands grabbing her by the lapels of her coat and pulling her close. And then there had been John’s mouth! Possessive. Claiming. Hard.

And at a crime scene!

Sherlock fought the urge to sigh.

But what she had said was true: she hadn’t kissed John back. She had been too stunned to react. But rather than embarrassing, her inertia had actually proved providential because now she had the opportunity to give John the first kiss that _she_ wanted: private, intimate, and romantic.

Where to start?

Private was simple and straightforward. There were a myriad of settings where she and John could be alone, safe not just from casual onlookers but also from Mycroft’s all-seeing eyes.

Intimate was more challenging. Intimate meant close, and not just physically, Sherlock knew, but also mentally and emotionally. How to ensure that neither John nor she were angry or frustrated or tired or at odds with each other in some way? It would require further reflection at a later, more sober moment when Sherlock no longer imagined that she could still feel the warmth and pressure of John’s lips on hers.

The most vexing part was romantic. Crime scenes were obviously not as romantic to John as they were to Sherlock, but what was? The idea of consulting popular media or her sister on the matter nauseated Sherlock and might very well prove disastrous. She must rely on what she knew of John.

Further reflection, indeed.

But not now. For now, she would revel in the memory.

Sherlock closed her eyes.

* * *

John closed her eyes.

Mule kick.

A sudden, hard, solid, hoofed blow to her sternum could not have had a more pronounced effect on her than Sherlock’s words.

_I didn’t kiss you back._

An instant of reflection confirmed John’s fear: Sherlock was right; she hadn’t kissed John back. And, apparently, she hadn’t wanted to kiss John back. Or wanted John to kiss her.

What did that make it?

Say the word, John, say the word. That made it some kind of violation. Assault.

Lord, what did that make _her_?

John looked at Sherlock from the corner of her eye. Not a movement. Not a noise.

Christ, she must be beside herself. Maybe she’s deleting it. Were that John could delete it!

What if that had been Sherlock’s first kiss ever, as in first in her entire life? And John had ruined it. The impulse had been fuelled by desire, but John had to admit that the precipitating spark had been one of anger.

Bloody Donovan and her bloody mouth!

How to make this right? John had no idea, but the least she could do was not to make things worse.

She kept silent company with her recriminations all the way to Baker Street.

* * *

John went directly upstairs. She sat down on the bed and put her head in her hands.

Make it right. How?

_Beep!_

**Jhnny pls hlp. NOW! Pls pls. Nwher tgo.**

John sighed. She went downstairs and knocked softly on Sherlock’s bedroom door.

“Sherlock?”

“Hmm?”

“Harry’s in some kind of trouble. I’m going to stop by her place and see what’s wrong. I’m going to take an overnight bag, just in case. I’ll be back tomorrow at the latest.”

“Oh. Okay.”

John climbed the stairs slowly.

Okay?

Not one word of protest or complaint. Not one snide comment or cutting remark.

Christ, things were worse than she thought.

Sherlock _wanted_ her to go.

* * *

Sherlock didn’t want John to go, of course.

But a brief absence from the flat would work in Sherlock’s favour.

Sherlock could better focus on planning their next kiss, The Kiss as Sherlock was calling it in her head, without the distraction of John’s lips and her other very kissable parts on constant parade. Because with their first kiss behind them, John might want more kisses, and Sherlock wanted The Kiss to be perfect.

Private. Intimate. Romantic.

* * *

ohn wrapped the bottle of Jameson in her jumper and tucked it carefully in her bag. After the last twenty-four hours, she wanted a drink more than anything in the world, and yet, after the last twenty-four hours, a drink was the last thing she was going to have.

Harry was in rehab. Again.

**On my way back. JW**

John looked anxiously at her phone. She had not heard from Sherlock since leaving Baker Street.

**Out. Case. SH**

Sherlock was already going on cases without her! Mule kick did not even come close. John shook her head and closed the door behind her.

* * *

John walked aimlessly. When snow began to fall, she sat on a park bench and watched the world slowly turn white. Somewhere in the distance she heard carollers singing about yuletide cheer.

She felt adrift.

Was this the beginning of the end? Surely not. She and Sherlock were soulmates! Then why did John feel that they was one awkward conversation away from her packing her bags and leaving Baker Street for good? Even if she apologized, which she had, but even if she apologized more, how could she make it right?

It was the question she’d been asking herself since the taxi ride, and she was nowhere closer to an answer that when she’d started.

“Doctor Watson.”

John groaned. “How do you do that?! Just appear, out of thin air?”

“Good evening to you, too,” said Mycroft, standing over her with an umbrella. “You’re a bit underdressed for the weather.”

“Yes, Mother,” whined John. She bent forward and dragged a hand through her snow damp-hair.

“I trust your familial difficulties are, at least temporarily, resolved.”

“Yes. Did you have a hand in that centre accepting her? They never have before.”

Mycroft cocked her head to the side and did not answer. Then she asked casually, “Are Harriet’s woes the only source of your disquietude?”

“What, is one drunk sister not enough?”

“Hmmm. Let’s see. You’re sitting in the snow, in the dark, alone, without adequate protection from the elements. You’re avoiding Baker Street. Sherlock—“

“—is fine and on a case. I’m just,” John sighed and looked at everything about her, but Mycroft, “thinking.”

“Of?”

John felt a hand on her head. Stroking. Petting. It was the gentlest of touches, and any other time John would’ve pushed into that hand and found comfort in the gesture. There was no comfort to be had here.

Did she deserved any?

John sat up, pursed her lips, and jut her chin out. “I’m not going to talk about it,” she said firmly.

“If my sister has done something to upset you…”

“No, no, it’s not like that. Listen, I appreciate what you’re trying to do, but you can’t fix this.” John stood. “I’ve got to go. See you, Mycroft.” John squeezed the arm that held the umbrella and hurried away.

* * *

Sherlock smiled. She had bought herself just the time she needed to put the finishing touches on…

_Beep!_

**Talk to John. Now. MH**

Sherlock huffed and dropped her phone in her coat pocket, muttering, “Well, plan A is down the drain. Thank goodness improvisation is my specialty.”

* * *

John transferred two neat piles of pants to the suitcase that lay open on the bed. Then she tucked roll after roll of socks beside the pants.

This was wrong.

She need to talk to Sherlock, to clear the air, once and for all. How had things got so bad so quickly? And all because of one bloody kiss!

_Beep!_

John glanced at her phone and read the message.

“Oh, fuck! Vatican cameos!”

She grabbed her gun and flew down the stairs.

* * *

Let her be okay. Let her be okay.

John threw bills at the driver and bolted from the vehicle as it slowed.

“Sherlock!”

“John!”

“Are you okay?”

“Yes, yes. Come on!”

“Where are we going?”

“Up.”

“What’s going on, Sherlock?”

“You’ll see.”

* * *

When they exited the lift, Sherlock led John down a corridor and through a side door to stairwell. Then they climbed flight after flight after flight of stairs. As they rose, the air grew colder and the howl of the wind outside the thin metal walls grew louder.

“Almost there.”

John stopped panting. She looked up and groaned. “Where?”

“Just a few more.”

Finally, they stopped. Sherlock looked into John’s eyes. “It’s private here.”

John caught her breath and laughed hoarsely. “Yes, probably because we’re leagues above the city, and I’m pretty sure it’s illegal for us to be here. Especially at this hour.”

Sherlock huffed and rolled her eyes. Then she smiled softly and stepped towards John with the sides of the Belstaff open. “It’s intimate.”

Instinctively, John went to her. She buried her face in the crook of Sherlock’s neck and closed her eyes. “Yeah. Cosy.”

“And, I hope you’ll agree…” Sherlock leaned to the side. There was a loud click, and a door flew open.

Her final word was lost in the wind.

John looked down.

The whole city was below them. With the snow and holiday lights, it looked like a child’s snow globe.

A winter wonderland.

“It’s beautiful, Sherlock,” John mouthed. “Amazing.” Then she caught Sherlock’s eye. “You’re beautiful. And amazing.” Sherlock smiled and cupped John’s jaw with a gloved hand.

And kissed her.

John wrapped her arms around Sherlock’s neck and kissed back.

It was impossible to hear each other, but John had no doubt that Sherlock could read her lips. She broke the kiss and said, “You brought me to the top of the world just to kiss me?”

Sherlock nodded.

“And you say I’m the romantic?”

Sherlock’s smile grew wide and warm. They kissed again.

“Is it too early to say it?” asked John.

Sherlock raised an eyebrow and then shook her head.

“I love you, Sherlock Holmes.”

Sherlock blinked.

“Okay?” asked John.

“AGAIN!”

John laughed. “I LOVE YOU!” She gestured to the London skyline. “SHALL I SHOUT IT FROM THE ROOFTOPS?”

Sherlock nodded vigorously.

With Sherlock’s hands firmly around her waist, John leaned into the swirling snow and yelled,

“I LOVE SHERLOCK HOLMES!”

Sherlock pulled her from the edge. John turned in her arms.

And they kissed and kissed and kissed.

* * *

They kissed down the many flights of stairs and in the lift and in the taxi and at the front door of 221B.

“So this is something we do now?” asked John. “Kissing?”

“Yes,” said Sherlock, emphatically.

They mounted the stairs and tumbled into the sitting room, with shining eyes, wind-chapped cheeks noses, and wet, grinning lips.

“Tea?” said Sherlock.

John gave a dismissive wave. “We need to celebrate. How about a drink? No, I’m freezing. Hey, how about a coffee?” She moved to the kitchen, spun round, and clapped her hands together. “An Irish coffee! I’ve got a bottle of Jameson from Harry’s in my bag upstairs and,” she opened the refrigerator, “there’s cream. This is cream, right?”

“Yes.” Sherlock hung the Belstaff on a hook.

John opened a cupboard and set two mugs on the counter. Life was strange, she thought. How quickly things change! A couple of hours earlier she had be ready to…

She heard footsteps on the stairs to her bedroom and froze.

Oh no!

“Sherlock?!”

Oh God. No, no, no!

John raced up the stairs. “Sherlock?”

Sherlock was staring at the open suitcase on the bed. She said slowly, “You were planning to leave.”

John’s head dropped. Something soft and pretty deflated in her chest. She moved in slow motion, taking her gun from the waistband of her jeans and returning it to its case, all the while breathing in the heavy silence of the room.

“When you said, ‘I didn’t kiss you back,’ I thought that meant you didn’t want to be kissed, that you didn’t want to kiss me, that I had, had,” John couldn’t bring herself to say the word. “And then when you didn’t grumble like you usually do when I go to Harry’s and when you said that you were on a case without me, I thought that all meant that, that you were upset, that you didn’t want me to be here.”

“And Mycroft?” asked Sherlock.

“She found me in the park. She did her Mycroft thing—.“ John made a vague gesture with her hands.

Sherlock snorted.

“—but I didn’t tell her anything. What happened, Sherlock? Did you change your mind about the kiss, the first one, I mean?”

Sherlock’s gaze turned from the bed to John. “You said that wasn’t how a first kiss was supposed to be. You said, ‘Private, intimate, and romantic.’ I wanted to give you that. I wanted to erase what had happened and give you the first kiss that _you_ wanted.”

John stared absently at the suitcase and let Sherlock’s words sink in. “So you _liked_ the first kiss? It was okay?”

Sherlock huffed. “It was like shouting it from the rooftops. It was…perfect.”

“How could I be such an idiot?”

“Practically everyone is,” said Sherlock with chagrin. “John…”

“I still love you, Sherlock. And I still want to kiss you.”

Sherlock nodded. “Me, too.”

John gave her a light peck on the lips and asked, “Tea?”

“Yes, please. And more kissing.”

“And perhaps a bit of talking so we don’t get ourselves into another one of these,” John gestured to the suitcase, “situations.”

Sherlock nodded and extended a hand towards the door. “After you.”

* * *

Mycroft heard the beep and said under her breath, “New Year’s resolution: change security code more often.”

“Won’t help,” said Sherlock, bursting through the study door. “My Christmas gift to you: private, intimate, romantic. Try this.” She slapped her hand on Mycroft’s desk. Then she turned abruptly and strode out of the room.

Mycroft called after her. “My Christmas gift to you is not having you arrested for trespass of a national monument!” Then she looked down and frowned.

Sherlock’s voice echoed in the distance. “And for God’s sake, talk to her!”

* * *

“Happy Christmas, Doctor Watson.”

John turned and smiled. “To you, too.”

“So glad you could make it. Please come in.”

“Yeah, sorry about last time,” said John as she crossed the threshold. “Sherlock and I had a long talk about her issuing me curfews. And using life-threatening means to enforce them.”

Mycroft smiled. “No matter. I was pleased that your earlier mood seemed to have lightened. Everything still well, I trust. I’ve not had to quash any complaints—noise or otherwise—from your neighbours this week. Here, let me take your coat.”

“Yes, everything’s fine now. Better than fine, really.” John turned her head. “Wow, that’s quite a tree!” She handed Mycroft her coat and walked toward the adjacent room. “I wouldn’t think you for the kind that would go in for decorating for the holidays.”

“It’s true that when spent alone, it hardly seems worth the effort, but when one has a guest…”

“In that case, be assured that your efforts are appreciated. Everything looks beautiful.” John’s eyes travelled from the tree to the rest of the room, to the ribbons and bows and garlands of holly and candles and wreaths.

Then she looked up.

At the sprig of mistletoe hanging directly over her head.

“Huh,” she said. “That certainly says something…”

“There are times when I find a clear, simple, unambiguous message is best,” said Mycroft, leaning closer.

“I couldn’t agree more,” said John, licking her lips and smiling. “Kiss me.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wishing all my gentle readers a very peaceful and joyous holiday season!


	8. Hand to Body

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter includes one mention of urinary incontinence and a very unrealistic medical scenario.

John tapped the number that she’d been given into the security panel. The door clicked.

Once inside, she felt uneasy. Entering a home whilst its owner was absent seemed intrusive, even for a soulmate who’d been specifically requested to do so.

_Beep!_

**Apologies. 45 minute delay. Make yourself at home. MH**

Damn it. What to do, what to do.

John walked about with hands locked behind her back. Every room looked like it belonged on the pages of a glossy magazine; every piece of sit-able furniture seemed too aristocratic to grace with her plebeian buttocks.

She took the stairs. The bedroom was, as she remembered, pin-neat. The only item out of place was a suit bag hanging on the door of the wardrobe with the cleaners’ tag still clipped to it.

John pulled the zipper down.

Ah, the tweed.

She smiled and her thoughts travelled back to the previous week.

* * *

Having left the flat early that morning, John had decided to walk to the surgery. She’d spotted the car as it turned the corner and had barely waited for it to roll to a stop before sliding in the back seat.

“Christ, I missed you,” she breathed. “How was Indonesia?”

“Hot.” Kiss. “Tedious.” Kiss. “Watson-less.” Kiss, kiss.

“I’m working today, but tonight…”

Mycroft pulled away; the look on her face said everything.

“You’re leaving again,” said John, not hiding her disappointment.

“I won’t be far, but I won’t be available either. Here.”

John raised an eyebrow at the piece of paper.

Mycroft said, “Security code to my home, should you need it.”

John shrugged. “Thank you, but I’m not likely to crawl into your bed to surprise you knowing it might be an eternity before you make an appearance. I’ll memorize it,” she tucked the paper into her back pocket, “and then eat the evidence.” The attempt at levity was feeble and forced, even to her own ears, and she winced.

Mycroft leaned closer and kissed John again. “A few days, and then dinner and a film and, should you be amenable,” this time when their mouths met, John felt the soft caress of Mycroft’s tongue, “breakfast.”

John groaned and brought her mouth to Mycroft’s earlobe and then her neck. “Christ, Mycroft, do you know…?” she whispered.

“I know.”

John was heartened at the strain in Mycroft’s voice; at least she wasn’t alone in her frustration.

Mycroft cleared her throat and then said more evenly, “Three, four days at the most.”

John nodded. Back to business. “Drop me off at the surgery?”

Mycroft leaned back and glanced out the window. “It’s an eight to nine and a half minute ride.”

“Time enough for a decent snog,” suggested John, wiggling her eyebrows and grinning.

Mycroft reached for her. “Come here.”

John pulled back in mock protest. “I’ll wrinkle your nice suit!”

“It’s tweed. Fuck the suit.”

* * *

_Beep!_

**Case. Packed your bag. Paddington. 45 min. SH**

“I guess a proper date isn’t meant to be,” said John. She started to zip up the suit bag, then stopped.

Mycroft rapped her knuckle once on the partition, a signal to Georges to take the quickest route. She was a patient person by nature and by training, but this week had been a trying one.

She wanted her soulmate, and she wanted her _now_.

Mycroft was drafting a polite yet charming proposal to John to alter their evening’s itinerary and proceed directly to carnal indulgences when she received a message.

**Sorry. Have to go. Case. JW**

Mycroft dropped her head and groaned.

_Beep, beep!_

Then she looked up. A reprieve? Perhaps, for once, fortune was looking favourably upon her.

**For you. JW**

Mycroft frowned and clicked on the attachment. A video.

Her bedroom. Her bed. Her suit bag.

John leaning over the bed. Removing jacket, trousers, waistcoat and shirt from the bag. Tossing hanger and bag aside.

John standing up. Pulling her jumper over her head. Dropping it. Looking at Mycroft. Licking her lips.

“You said I could fuck the suit, right?”

Mycroft’s eyebrows rose as high as her facial musculature would permit. She paused the video and took a deep breath.

Then she leaned forward and rapped three times on the partition.

* * *

 Mycroft rubbed her face.

She did not know where she was. Or who she was. All her faculties were fixated on the tiny screen in her hand.

“I’ve got to go,” said John with a sleepy smile. “But maybe just one more. A little one.”

Clad only in Mycroft’s unbuttoned shirt, she sat with legs curled under her on Mycroft’s bed atop a pile of Mycroft’s tweed.

She let the shirt slip from her shoulders and then shrugged out of it completely.

Mycroft brought the screen closer. She studied the curve of John’s breasts, her nipples, her cleavage, Mycroft’s own name delicately inked on skin. Not only Mycroft’s name was there, of course, but Sherlock was not the only Holmes who could selectively delete items at will.

John’s entire torso was flushed and heaving. In a word, beautiful.

John reached for Mycroft’s waistcoat, brought it to her chest, and rubbed it against her.

“It’s rough and soft, the outer shell and the lining. S’good, very good.” She looked down at herself. “You’ll play with them, won’t you?” she asked, glancing at Mycroft coyly.

“Until you beg me to stop,” breathed Mycroft.

John took a pillow from the head of the bed and draped the jacket over it. Then she straddled the mound and began to rut.

“Just one more. Oh, God, that’s good. Miss you so much. I just want to be with you. It doesn’t have to be perfect. Or special. Or fancy. Or any of that. It can be in the bloody car, for all I care. I just want your hands on me. Oh, God, Mycroft, please.” John leaned forward onto her hands, dropping the waistcoat. She caught her bottom lip under her top teeth and bit back a whimper.

Mycroft touched the screen. “No, no, let me hear you, let me hear all of it.”

And as if she’d heard, John cried out, “Oh, God, Mycroft. Fuck me, please. I know you’d do it so good, so well, what’s the right word, oh, I don’t know. You’d know exactly, oh, Christ, exactly, God, exactly how to fuck me. Mycroft!”

Mycroft committed the final utterance to memory. Her name. Being cried out in pleasure. For the third time.

John collapsed flat onto the bed, with one eye peeking out from the curve of her arm. “Sorry not sorry about the suit,” she said mischievously just before she leapt from the bed.

And then image was blurry. And then dark. And then still.

Mycroft looked out the window and blinked. “Oh, thank God, I’m home.”

* * *

Anthea was quite sure he was going mad. Or going to be sacked. Or both.

One, he was letting his emotion—that is to say, his shock—show plainly on his face. Two, he was stating the obvious. Three, he was questioning the actions of his superior, and Mycroft Holmes _was_ his superior. Specifically, she was the superior who had taught him to never, ever do numbers one and two.

“Did you just put Vladimir Putin on hold?!” he cried.

“Have they solved it or not?!” roared Mycroft.

Anthea stared at the blinking light on the phone and sputtered, “T-t-they arrived two hours and fifty-three minutes ago…”

Mycroft gave an impatient wave of the hand. “Get me the particulars. I’ll solve it myself on the way. Move!” she barked.

Anthea could not remember when his superior had issued an order without any attempt to disguise it as a request or a suggestion, so he moved. Quickly.

* * *

“S-s-sherlock.”

Sherlock tightened her grip around John. “Hush.”

“The w-w-water. Not j-j-just cold. F-f-foul. M-m-my w-w-wound. T-t-tell ‘em. Inf-f-f-ection.”

“I’m quite sure that they’re familiar with antibiotics even in this remote corner of the country. A few stitches, a bit of penicillin, a nice hot bath, and we’ll be on a train back to London by evening.”

“G-g-getting b-b-blood on your n-n-nice c-c-coat.”

“Fuck the coat.”

John wheezed.

“M-m-maybe later-r-r.”

* * *

Mycroft opened her eyes.

They were not there yet.

She closed her eyes.

She had wanted an aeroplane, but economy and rational thought had prevailed, and she had agreed to the train with the assurance that there would be a very fast car waiting for them at the station.

She was tired of waiting. Of missed opportunities. Of delayed gratification. Of ships passing in the bloody night.

The only thing that was making the long journey palatable was her indulgence in a bit of a daydream.

It was dark. Her nude form was bound and secured to a padded table and John, for there was no one else she would ever permit to touch her so, was massaging her body from scalp to heel. A soft scent and a softer melody, neither of which Mycroft’s dream-brain could readily place, were folding into John, becoming part of her touch. And Mycroft was yielding to that touch, giving herself over to her soulmate, letting go of everything…

“The only device I can’t silence is your mind,” whispered John.

“Can’t you now?” mumbled Mycroft.

She groaned out loud when John’s capable—so capable Mycroft wanted to weep—hands began kneading a particularly troublesome spot.

“That’s it, love,” said John. How that tiny word still shook Mycroft, even when her own imagination scripted it!

“Let me take care of you. Please, love. I’ve got you.”

Mycroft made a high-pitched noise that was part capitulation, part relief. She heard the swish of fabric and then felt John’s nude body covering hers. She took a deep breath, and a deep hollow moan began to rumble in her chest.

“Ma’am?”

Mycroft opened her eyes.

“Yes?”

“Change of plans.”

* * *

“I told you,” said Sherlock smugly. “Case solved. Justice afforded. Blogger mended, scrubbed, and disinfected.”

John smiled and raised a paper cup with her unbandaged hand. “And we're on the train home before dark! Extraordinary and worth a toast, even if it is only tea. Cheers.”

Sherlock touched the rim of her cup to John’s. “Cheers.”

John sipped the warm liquid and then set the cup in the holder between the seats. “You weren’t worried?”

“Absolutely not. Knew you’d pull through. You always do.”

John smiled. Then she looked out the window and sighed.

The door slid open.

“Mycroft!” exclaimed John and got to her feet.

“Don’t stand!” growled Sherlock. “She’s not the bloody Queen!”

“Actually, you’re the one who should be standing,” said Mycroft. “Seeing as how you’re leaving.”

Sherlock’s gaze turned hard and cold. “No,” she hissed.

“Hey, hey, no fighting,” said John. “I’ll go. Where is your seat, Mycroft?”

“Right here,” said Mycroft. “Sherlock is leaving, and you and I are going to enjoy some much-anticipated, much-delayed time together. _Alone_.”

“I am going nowhere!” said Sherlock. “ _You_ have trespassed; therefore it is _you_ who will be leaving.”

“Sherlock…” John made to turn, but Mycroft caught her by the back of the head and kissed her roughly.

John was stunned. Until now, a hand at the small of her back was the extent of Mycroft’s affection in public. It was fine with John, more than fine, actually, given how ardent Mycroft behaved behind closed doors.

This was different. Very different.

Mycroft’s mouth was hard, possessive, demanding. “No more waiting. Not even for her,” she said.

“Oh, God,” said John. Then Sherlock was pressed against at her back, leaning over her.

“You are not going to fuck her right here in front of me!”

“The only thing that would stop me is her!”

John felt two sets of angry eyes on her.

“Oh, Lord!” she cried.

Then everything went dark.

John heard the whoosh-whoosh of the train and felt its rumbling beneath her feet. Mycroft and Sherlock closed in on her, silently, from both sides.

They’re going to kill each other, John thought, and probably accidently kill me in the process.

There was a long pause, and it seemed to John that no one was breathing.

Then suddenly there was a mouth on her neck, licking, biting. Then there was a second mouth, also licking, also biting. Then there were hands. One, two, four hands. On her. Unbuckling her belt. Opening her jeans. Slipping under her jumper and vest. Caressing her. Guiding her to rut on the thigh that was parting her legs.

They were fucking her. Together. In the dark. On a train.

“OH GOD!”

* * *

“She’s dreaming,” said Sherlock.

“She’s delirious,” said Mycroft. “A related, but distinct process.”

Sherlock huffed. “Whatever. It’s of us.”

“Yes.”

“Fucking her.”

“Yes.”

“Together.”

“It would seem so.”

“How long is this bloody tunnel?” mumbled John.

Sherlock and Mycroft looked at each other and said in unison,

“On a train.”

* * *

“She should be in London.”

“She will be, the moment she’s stable, which depends on how soon the fever breaks. Everything’s ready.”

Sherlock paced back and forth. “On a train, Mycroft! Are we going to fuck her together on a bloody train?!”

“Sherlock, do I need to explain to you that what people dream of, even what they consciously fantasise about, may bear absolutely no relation to what they desire in reality?”

“So fantasies are trivial? Irrelevant? Inconsequential?”

“Yes, they can be.”

“So that’s why you almost got us in a war with Moscow? Because of a trivial, irrelevant, inconsequential fantasy?”

Mycroft stared. “Anthea will be sacked.”

“IT WAS ON THE BLOODY TELLY!” roared Sherlock. “The war, not your fantasy, thank God.”

“NO! No, no, no!” John squirmed in the bed. Suddenly, a sharp scent flooded the room. “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, sorry, sorry…”

Mycroft took John’s hand; then she bent and brushed her hair from her forehead. “It’s okay, John. It’s okay.”

John’s eyes were wet with tears, and her voice was child-like, “I made a m-m-mess…”

Sherlock walked toward the door. “I’ll call someone to help.”

“We’ll clean you,” said Mycroft. “We’re here.”

“What?” said Sherlock.

Mycroft glared at her. “The linen is there.” She gestured toward the cupboard.

“When did you become Florence Nightingale?” asked Sherlock.

“The day you entered—and ruined—my peaceful life!”

John looked from Sherlock to Mycroft, crying. “Don’t f-f-fight, please. It’s what I d-d-do. I make a m-m-mess of things. Your nice s-s-suit. Sherlock’s nice c-c-coat. Why’d you even bother? You sh-sh-should leave me, I’ll only….”

“Shhh, John, you’re ill and not thinking straight. And if you knew what a muck our lives were before you arrived and how much better they are now that you here, you wouldn’t be saying these things.” Mycroft took John’s hand and placed it over her own heart. “I love you, John Watson, and I will never leave you.”

John tried to sit up. Mycroft leaned forward and kissed her.

“I love you, too, Mycroft. So much.”

“Hey!” cried Sherlock, her arms piled high with sheets and pillowcases. “What about me?”

“I hate you, Sherlock,” said Mycroft dryly.

John giggled and wiped the tears from her cheeks.


	9. Mouth to Breast (part 1 of 2)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter includes references to self-harm and child abuse. It got to be a bit lengthy so it's been divided in two parts. John's opera outfit is inspired by what Sharon Stone wore to the 1998 Oscars.

Sherlock was obsessed with hair.

No, Sherlock was obsessed with a hair. A single hair. On John’s chest.

She had seen it when she had inadvertently walked in on John in the toilet.

“Sherlock!”

“Here drink this, and tell me what you think.”

“Ugh! Is that shoe polish? Are you trying to poison me? Get out! Now!”

John had been looking in the mirror, smoothing her hair, the hair on her head. She had just applied lipstick. The whole scene was unusual because John hardly ever looked in mirrors. Or concerned herself with her hair. Or wore lipstick. But the combined aberration was quickly explained by the fact that John had a date tonight.

A date with Mycroft.

“Sorry,” mumbled Sherlock. A lie. She wasn’t sorry.

John hadn’t seen it, Sherlock knew. She had, however, pulled the side of her shirt and covered it. But just barely.

A moment too late. The damage was done. Sherlock had seen it, and now Sherlock wanted to know many things about that hair.

What would it feel like to lick it? What would it feel like to brush it with her thumb? Would John like it? Would Sherlock like it? Did John have other hairs on her breasts? How many? Where? Were they clustered or sparse? Did she remove them? Did she ignore them? Did she not even see them?

A million related thoughts bubbled up in Sherlock’s mind, but they all eventually burst, leaving one:

Sherlock wanted to see it again.

* * *

 

John stood in the doorway. “How do I look?” she asked. “Opera-worthy?” She stretched her arms out and pivoted. She wore a white shirt with gaping neckline and a long purple satin skirt.

She looked lovely, but Sherlock merely grunted and feigned interest in the latest issue of the _Journal of Forensic Sciences_.

“An American actress wore something like this to the Academy Awards once. I remembered how nice it looked and when your sister suggested a night out…”

“Opera’s boring,” said Sherlock, flipping a page.

“Right. Well,” she walked to the window and looked down, “my carriage is here. Back tomorrow.”

Sherlock grunted and flipped a page.

Mycroft would see the hair! Damn it!

There were no jurisdictional issues, so to speak, because the hair was closest to John’s right breast, not the left, that is, not the one with Mycroft and Sherlock’s names.

And, of course, Sherlock reminded herself, John’s breasts, hairs on John’s breasts, and, indeed, all of John, including the parts etched with Mycroft and Sherlock’s names, belonged to _John_ , and not to Mycroft or Sherlock.

But.

* * *

John washed her hands and smoothed her hair. Should she apply more lipstick? Hmm…

FUCK!

Fuck, fuck, fuck!

There was a hair on her chest! Right there! Where anyone could see! This is why she hated mirrors!

She pulled the edge of her shirt. It was covered. But just barely. One twist, one movement, and it would be on display again.

Had Mycroft seen it? Of course, she’d seen it. She was one of the most observant women in the world. One of two. And how could she not? There is was, plain as day.

A long, ugly, gnarly dark hair.

Oh, fuck, fuck, fuck!

John had been planning to go home with Mycroft tonight. To have lots of sex!

Mycroft would see it then, of course, if she hadn’t already. See it up close. But would she care? She was definitely not squeamish; one of the many traits she and Sherlock shared.

The problem was that John would never know if Mycroft cared or not because she was so unreadable and so chivalrous. Even if Mycroft was completely disgusted, she wouldn’t let it show.

John didn’t have any tweezers, nothing she could use to pluck it out. And she couldn’t very well ask Mycroft for some or, worse, go rummaging around in Mycroft’s cabinets when she wasn’t looking. And when was Mycroft ever not looking?

Oh, why hadn’t John noticed it before, when she was getting ready? Because Sherlock had barged in, without knocking, and distracted her! With her bloody shoe polish drink! Damn her!

John tugged at the shirt again. Oh, why hadn’t she worn something less revealing? Who was she kidding? She was basically putting her breasts out on a platter, saying ‘Look at me!’ Little did she realize she was actually saying, ‘Look at me and my pirate chest!’” This was a mistake. It wasn’t her. It wasn’t John Watson. John Watson wasn’t glamourous. John Watson wore jumpers. Beige, woolly jumpers that covered all sorts of abominations, whole chests of hair. She could be a bloody werewolf and no one would be the wiser!

And why was she at the opera? She had liked the first half, but seriously, it’s not as if she could hold her own in any conversation with Mycroft about it. She didn’t know the right words. It was the first opera she’d seen, perhaps even the first she’d ever heard all the way through. What was she going to say? ‘Oh, I like the little twittering part!’ She’d sound like a bloody idiot.

Fuck!

Fuck, fuck, fuck!

John felt ill.

* * *

“Are you ill, my dear?”

John turned. Did Mycroft know that John was about to lie to her? Surely she did. Mycroft knew everything. Maybe she was being polite, giving John a way out that saved them both embarrassment. Well, John would take it.

“Yes. I’m so sorry, Mycroft.” John frowned. “Earlier, Sherlock made me drink something, an experiment. I think it was shoe polish.”

She laughed. Mycroft laughed.                                  

“We can stay…” began John.

“Nonsense.”

John leaned close and put her lips to Mycroft’s ear.

“I wanted to go home with you tonight. I wanted, finally, to be with you in your bed, all night. To strip you bare. To crawl all over you. To put my tongue inside you, taste you…”

Mycroft covered John’s lips with her fingertips, and John noted that they were trembling fingertips.

She was as hungry for John as John was for her! A beautiful night ruined, and all because of a stupid hair!

“Another time, my dear. Let’s get you back to Baker Street.”

* * *

Mycroft watched John disappear.

She felt no disappointment. Only relief.

She had not thought this through at all. She had let lust cloud her judgment. She thought she could finesse this as if it were a professional negotiation. Smoke and mirrors.

She was a fool! An absolute dullard!

‘To strip you bare. To crawl all over you. To put my tongue inside you, taste you.’

John was a generous, unselfish person. Naturally, she would be a generous, unselfish lover. She was frank and open. She would expect her bedpartner to be equally frank and open.

Mycroft rubbed her face with her hand, and noted that she was trembling. She brought her hand in front of her face, fingers splayed.

How absurd!

She gripped the handle of her umbrella tightly and rapped the partition three times.

* * *

“YOU AND YOUR BLOODY SHOE POLISH!”

John stomped up the stairs and threw herself face down on the bed.

She was too old for this, this adolescent posturing.

They were grown women. Who had hair. Maybe Mycroft had hairs on her chest. Maybe she liked hairy chested women! Maybe that was part of the whole soul-mate business. Matching ying with yang. Or ying with another, much hairier, ying.

John had fought a war. She was surviving cohabitation with Sherlock, which was its own battlefield with at least two fronts. She could have a bloody conversation about a hair.

She stomped back downstairs.

“OUT!” she roared.

* * *

Mycroft could ignore the bell. She could.

No, Mycroft could not ignore the bell. She had one name etched on her skin, and John appeared to be distressed. Perhaps she was truly ill.

Mycroft took a deep breath and opened the door.

“I HAVE A HAIR ON MY CHEST!”

Mycroft blinked. That was unexpected.

John gestured to her neckline. “Right here. It’s,” she looked down, “still there. Long, dark, ugly. And that’s why I looked ill. I didn’t want you to see it. To see me like this, with it on my chest. I thought you would be turned off and, given how generous and unselfish you are, you wouldn’t say anything, but you’d still be disgusted and I’m sorry for lying to you. And for behaving like an arse. Please forgive me and my, my, stupid hair. It’s quite cold in Scotland sometimes, perhaps, at some point, it had an evolutionary advantage.”

Mycroft smiled. The smile hid her abject fear. Was she going to do this here? Now? It seemed she was.

She spoke quickly. “My dear, you honour me with your confidence. And so I feel obliged to return it. I have scars.”

“I know,” said John softly. “Me too, remember?” She touched her left shoulder with her hand.

“Some of my scars are old. Some are older.”

John’s face hadn’t changed. It would.

“A few are accidents. Some are self-inflicted. Some are neither.”

There it was.

“Oh.” Slow nodding. Dawning. Good. No need to be explicit. Vulgar.

“The latter are,” Mycroft grimaced, “unsightly. I would prefer to have them covered, concealed during moments of intimacy.”

“I could close my eyes.”

What? Mycroft blinked.

“I mean, is it just seeing you? If I closed my eyes, or,” John paused, “you could blindfold me! And then, could I, uh, touch you. With my hand. Or my mouth. Or nothing at all.”

“I, um, haven’t considered those particular options. They do bear some thought.”

They did bear some thought.

“Oh. Christ. What I said earlier, Mycroft, at the opera, about stripping you bare if it upset you, Oh Lord.”

John turned away.

Mycroft begged silently. Don’t turn away, please. Don’t cover your mouth like that. Please.

John turned back.

“I would never ask you to do anything that you didn’t want to…”

“I know.”

“…I talk utter rubbish, all the time…”

“That’s not true.”

“…I’m so sorry for whatever happened to you…”

“Ancient history.”

“But it isn’t, is it? Or we wouldn’t be here…”

And there was the sword through the underbelly of the dragon.

Mycroft was slain. She dropped her head.

“…we’d be plucking a bloody hair out of my chest! And having lots of sex!” cried John.

“My driver will take you home.”

“What? No! Mycroft, we’re going to talk about this—“

Mycroft stepped back and closed the door.

“MYCROFT!”

* * *

Bloody Mycroft!

Sherlock took a deep breath.

John. In the doorway. Tear-stained and sniffling. Wiping her nose with her sleeve and looking toward the window.

“Mycroft has scars,” she said.

“Yes.”

“Do you?” It was an accusation as much as a question.

“No.”

John huffed. “I can’t tell if you’re lying. Either of you.”

In an instant, Sherlock was on her feet, dressing gown discarded. Her torso was bare.

“Look.” She turned.

“Why not?” asked John.

Sherlock re-donned her dressing gown. How to make her see?

“Harry has scars. You know them, you understand them, but are they yours?”

Ah, there it was. Slow nodding. Dawning. Good. No need to be explicit. Vulgar.

“She doesn’t want to see me. She closed the door on me.”

“It isn’t that she doesn’t want to see you; it is that she doesn’t want _you_ to see _her_. And for that, she’s a fool.”

“Sherlock.”

And then she was in Sherlock’s arms. Sobbing.

Bloody, idiotic, stupid Mycroft!

Was this the price of actually being human, instead of just pretending to be human? That one had to hold one’s—lover. Horrid. One’s love? Banal. One’s beloved? Better. One soulmate? Precise, at least.—in one’s arms while they wept for another?

It would seem so.

Say something reassuring, Sherlock.

“She’ll come back, John. She'll come to her senses. Eventually.”

John sniffed and pulled back. She looked up at Sherlock, her face puffy and splotched. “I know.”

That was unexpected.

Sherlock blinked. “You do?”

John sniffed. “Of course.” She tugged at the left side of her shirt and touched her fingertips to their names. “We’re soulmates. And she did it before, after the phone sex. She’ll come back. One day. I’m not crying for _me_ , silly.”

“Then…”

“I’m crying for _her_. For what she endured and for what she’s enduring right now. She thinks she has to go through life alone, and she doesn’t. I’m right _here_. It’s so tragic.”

Which one of us is extraordinary?

The thick tome caught John's eye. “What are you reading? Looks formidable.”

It’s not.

“ _The Encyclopaedia of Mixology_! Impending career change?”

“You didn’t like my Tom Collins.”

“What?! Sherlock, that was not a Tom Collins!”

“It _was_ a Tom Collins. I just forgot that it wasn’t lemon juice in the green bottle.”

“Oh Lord. Do I even want to know? Okay, what was in the green bottle, Sherlock?”

“Shoe polish.”

John stared. Then she burst out laughing.

Which was better: making John laugh or solving crimes?

“Sherlock, Sherlock, Christ, I love you!” She kissed Sherlock. “Love you, love you, love you. I will love you until the day you accidentally poison me with shoe polish."

Making John laugh. “And I you.”

“Find us a case. Something silly, something that won’t break my heart. A lost dog.”

Done. Sherlock had something fitting that very description in her email queue, well, technically she had deleted, but it would be resurrected, post-haste. She kissed John.

John smiled and sniffed and looked over her shoulder. “Are you going to keep reading?”

“Yes.” A lie.

“Mind if I stay here and watch telly?”

“Not at all, but,” Sherlock pointed to the other end of the sofa, “that end is 89% more comfortable.”

“Really?”

“Yes.” No, just throwing random figures at you, to both impress and convince.

“The things you calculate. Okay.”

They resettled at the opposite end of the sofa. John’s head was in Sherlock’s lap; her lower half covered in a blanket. Sherlock balanced the book on the arm of the sofa and pretended to read. John’s hand found hers and laced their fingers together.

It was perfect.

From here, Sherlock could see the hair. And if John fell asleep, as she was threatening to do at this very moment, Sherlock could study it all night.

* * *

“Ma’am?”

“Yes, Georges.”

“I’ll clean the interior tonight, shall I? Because you’ll be needing the vehicle in the morning.”

“At your convenience, Georges. I’ll be gone for a month, possibly longer. I’ll take a cab to the airport.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Mycroft was about to close the door when she stopped and went down to the garage.

She opened the car door.

And there it was, scrawled in lipstick across the leather seat,

I LOVE YOU MYCROFT HOLMES AND I WILL NEVER, EVER LEAVE YOU. JW

She took a photo with her phone, then slammed the door shut.


	10. Mouth to Breast (part 2 of 2)

“Christ, I look a fright!” muttered John.

In the harsh light of day, the hair on her chest was a minor concern. Her face still bore hideous traces of the previous night’s drama.

“Here.” The door cracked open, and a hand appeared. At the end of it was a pair of sunglasses. “Case.”

“Right. Thank you.”

John put on the sunglasses. Well, that was better.

“Here.” The hand reappeared with a glass of thick, red-orange liquid, in which a stick of celery bobbed like the sunk Titanic.

“Nice try. You know Bloody Marys aren’t supposed to contain actual blood of people actually named Mary?”

The glass disappeared with a harrumph.

* * *

“Is this _Downton Abbey_?”

“Of course not.”

“You don’t know what _Downton Abbey_ is, do you?”

“That doesn’t mean I’m wrong—“

“Hello, hello, hello!” John looked down onto the lawn. “Those are very attractive young ladies playing croquet in very little clothing.”

“They’re shooting a promotional film. The entire wardrobe for the set has disappeared. Twice. Very costly, the delays in the schedule and the replacement of the clothing.”

“Clothing? They’re wearing practically nothing!”

“It’s a high-end lingerie line, John. That ‘nothing’ worth a considerable amount of money. That, for example, retails at £995.”

“Jesus Christ! Now look over there. That young lady should probably not be pouring tea like that, a bit dangerous, given how much exposed skin is on display.”

“Are you coming?”

“No, I’m going to watch a bit of croquet and maybe offer some advice on tea-pouring.”

* * *

John wiped her eyes. “I can’t believe it, Sherlock.”

More laughing.

Sherlock smiled.

The best? Solving crimes _and_ making John laugh.

And not just laugh. Laugh until she cried. Laugh until she doubled over, clenching her stomach, as she was right now.

Sherlock continued, “…he is the owner and resident of the adjacent property, chronic insomniac, recently been given a prescription for zolpidem…”

“Sleepwalking! Christ! It’s like Wilkie Collins.”

“On a side note, I’m going to invent my own cocktail, John, called the ‘Wilkie Collins.’”

“Ha, ha, ha! Oh, God. Please do, just leave out the laudanum.”

“Well, now you’ve gone and spoilt the secret ingredient!”

John howled. Finally, after two attempts, she regained her composure enough to ask, “So he slept-walked across the estate and pilfered all the garments and returned without anyone the wiser?”

“Yes, quite remarkable that, but as you pointed out the outfits weren’t exactly voluminous in material, except the one with the marabou trim, which, of course, gave him away…”

“And he didn’t tell anyone in the morning when he discovered what he’d done?”

“Well, Sir Eustace was hiding a secret, probably what kept him up at night, his affection for the daughter of his wife’s brother. He gifted her some of his loot as an anonymous admirer in the hopes of securing her favour…”

“Wait a minute, _Sir_ Eustace?”

“Oh, yes.”

“Oh my God, oh my God. I was just going to call it ‘The Case of the Nicked Knickers,” but now I can call it, “The Case of the Knicker-Nicking, Niece-Loving Knight! Ha, ha, ha!”

“Bit wordy, don’t you think, John?”

“I love you, Sherlock. Have I told you that?”

Seven times in the last twelve hours. “No, I don’t think so.”

“Well, I do. Love you.”

Eight.

Beep!

Sherlock looked at her phone. “Interesting.”

“What’s that?”

“The firm is offering, in lieu of cash payment for services rendered, a line of credit at the company’s flagship store.” She turned the screen toward John.

John whistled. “Sherlock, that’s a lot of knickers. That’s probably more than my entire wardrobe’s worth.”

“Nonsense. The suit Mycroft gave you—“

“Uh-huh. Stop. I don’t want to know how much that costs. So you’re going lingerie shopping?”

“We.”

“Me?! You solved the case!”

“You found the first marabou feather, which put me on the trail of Sir Eustace.”

“Whilst adjudicating a surprisingly heated game of croquet.”

“And you may very well have prevented first or even second degree burns in that young lady.”

“Proving that you can pour tea provocatively without putting your assets, so to speak, in harm’s way.”

“So what do you say?”

“Lingerie.”

“Yes, I estimate we could both select two ensembles for this amount.”

“First of all, that’s outrageous. But even so, Sherlock, I don’t even wear knickers. I wear pants. Nice cotton, comfortable, utilitarian pants. I wear athletic bras. Or no bra at all sometimes.”

The very best of times, thought Sherlock.

John looked out the window. “And you want me to pick out tiny bits of ribbon and lace and truss myself up like an Easter bonnet.”

“Does this look like an Easter bonnet?” Sherlock flashed the screen at John.

“Holy Mary. Well, I won’t look like that. You might, though.”

“I won’t do it if you don’t. I don’t believe we’ve been clothing shopping together. Isn’t that something that friends do? _Girl_ friends?”

Too heavy? Felt a bit forced. A bit hammy.

John chuckled. “Picking out lingerie. Something I would never—in a million years—imagine that we’d do together, but, then again, I’ve done a lot of things I never thought I’d do. Go to the opera. Read what’s-his-name?”

“It would be much better than Thucydides. For starters, I wouldn’t allow you to fall sleep.” Sherlock smiled.

“You’ll help me pick something out?”

“Naturally.”

“And allow me to have a bit of input in your selection?”

“Now you’re just being tedious. Yes!”

John nodded. “Okay.”

Sherlock began tapping her phone. “I’ll let them know. Tomorrow?”

“Sure.”

Sherlock’s smile grew. She would definitely be seeing the hair again. Tomorrow!

* * *

“I suppose the first step for me,” John pointed to a sign, “is to get properly fitted.”

Sherlock held open the door.

“I’ve gained a bit of weigh, lost a bit, gained a bit. I don’t wear this type of bra often, and every brand’s different, so I guess I should get one of these very professional looking ladies to set me off on the right foot.”

* * *

“Sherlock! What are you doing here?”

“If you think I am going just waltz around the shop while another woman, whose name is not Holmes, measures your breasts, you are barking!”

“It’s their job. They do it all day long.”

“It’s measurement and simple arithmetic, which I can also do all day long. Especially when it comes to your breasts.”

Sherlock held up the measuring tape.

“It’s just like a doctor giving a breast exam. It’s not sexual,” said John.

“Speaking of which, I would like to schedule monthly breast exams. With you.”

“Sherlock, breast cancer is not sexy. Or funny.”

“No, it isn’t. One in eight, John.”

“Self-exams are only one part of the picture, but an important part of early detection.”

“I agree.”

“ _Self_ -exams. So you know what’s normal for you, so you can more easily identify when something’s not normal.”

“What is the advantage of have a physician for a live-in soulmate if I can’t get a home visit?!”

“Sherlock, you’re not taking this seriously.”

“I’ll meet you in the shower on the 19th of the month. Clothing optional.”

“Oh, okay! You are incorrigible! Let’s do get on with it!”

John tore off her jumper and dropped it on the bench behind her.

Sherlock stared. “Where is it?”

“What?”

“The hair!”

John’s hands flew to her chest. “You saw it!”

“Of course I saw it! It was right there!” Sherlock pointed.

“Why didn’t you say something?”

“Because I wanted to look at it. Study it.”

“You _liked_ it?!”

“Yes. It’s fascinating.”

“I’m sorry to disappoint you, Sherlock, but in preparation for this little excursion of ours, I plucked them!”

“THERE WERE MORE?!”

“Sherlock!”

“John!”

John blinked. “You are my soulmate.”

“Yes, I think we established that quite a long time ago.”

“No, but I mean you really are. Even if there were someone else’s name on my chest.”

“There _is_ someone else’s name on your chest, lamentably!”

“Would you just measure me, please?”

“Don’t slouch.”

“I’m a soldier! I never slouch.”

* * *

“That one.”

“I thought you said that you didn’t like pink.”

“ _I_ don’t, but…”

John stared. “Sherlock.”

“Don’t.”

“Huh. Amazing. You said that you didn’t think you couldn’t share me and now you’re helping me select lingerie to wear for your sister.”

“I said, ‘Don’t’”

“I won’t say anything else, primarily because it sounds quite creepy when you say it aloud, but I’m thinking it, how amazing you are, how far we’ve come.” She reached out and gave Sherlock’s hand a squeeze. “Okay, I’ve made my choices. Now, you. The problem is that you’d look lovely in anything.”

“You like black.”

“I do like black.”

“Satin.”

“Of course. Lace, silk, all of it. Anything that doesn’t make you look as if you just fell into a bunch of electrical cords. Why don’t I just go to the front and wait? Surprise me.”

“I thought you wanted input.”

“I thought so, too, but this place, it’s too much, Sherlock.”

“Four and a half minutes.”

* * *

“It’ll grow back, Sherlock. The hair.”

“I know.”

John sighed. “Why don’t we take the rest of the day off? Get your dictionary—“

“Encyclopaedia.”

“—make silly cocktails, get a bit pissed, and show off our frilly duds?” John licked her lips.

Sherlock smiled. A recipe for a very nice afternoon, indeed.

“No laudanum,” said John.

Sherlock’s face fell.

John giggled. So did Sherlock.

* * *

John sipped and made a face. “Sweet.”

“A Hercule Poirot.”

John giggled. “What’s in it?”

“Crème de cassis, among other things.”

John sipped another. “Ugh. Very sweet.”

“A Miss Marple.”

John giggled. “Let me guess, elderberry wine!”

“Very good, John.”

“Where in the hell did you get—?”

Sherlock pointed downwards.

“Ah, Mr. Hudson.”

“Leaving fictional detectives behind,” John set the glass down and looked about the counter, “where’s the Sherlock Holmes?”

“I don’t drink.”

“You don’t, do you? I mean a glass of wine, here and there, but…”

“Not my vice.”

“No, I guess not.”

Sherlock turned away quickly; when she turned back, there was a glass in each hand.

John studied the new offerings. “What’s this one?” She sipped. “Hey, that’s rather good.” Another sip. “Excellent, really. You’re pretty good at this. I guess mixing drinks is just chemistry in the end.”

“Precisely. It’s called John Watson in the Morning. Tea-infused vodka.”

John laughed. “So this one is…?” she gestured to the smaller glass.

“John Watson at Night.”

John sipped. “Whoa. That will, uh,” she coughed, “definitely put hair on your chest!”

“You think so? I’ll make a pitcher.”

John howled with laughter. Then she sobered slightly and said, “You’ve never shown much interest in cocktails before now, why the sudden interest?”

Would John appreciate a bit of frankness? Perhaps.

“You don’t flirt with me,” blurted Sherlock.

The glass stopped half-way to John’s lips. She blinked.

“You flirt with Mycroft. You don’t flirt with me. Well, once. But that was related to Mycroft, too. You flirt with her on the phone, talking, texting, etcetera. You say things in person, too, I suspect. But with me,” Sherlock shrugged, “you’re affectionate, but it’s not the same. Perhaps it’s because we share living quarters or because I don’t present the same sort of image—“

“Stop.” John took a gulp of her drink, making a face as she swallowed. “Okay. Whew! Uh, I’m glad that you said something. And maybe you’re right, about some of the reasons for the differences in my behaviour with Mycroft, but who cares about why, because I definitely,” she moved around the table and advanced on Sherlock, grinning, “feel like flirting. With you. Right now. Was that the point? Get me pissed so that I’ll flirt? A bit round-about and ridiculous, but by now, I’m quite used to it, it’s your MO and, hey, it’s also effective.” She came closer and until their chests were touching and pressed her lips to Sherlock’s blouse.

Sherlock heard own heartbeat hammering in her ears. Here it was, what she had set in motion, what she had been painstakingly willing into being, and now she was not sure she could control it, not sure that she would not be swept away in it. She felt a stab of something akin to empathy for Mycroft, though she would go to her grave before admitting it.

John whispered, “I want to see what you picked out, Sherlock. Show me, please.”

Sherlock would not tremble. She would play the game that she had started. “Beg.” It was a whisper.

John looked up. Her pupils were blown black and she was smiling. “It’s like that, is it? Sherlock, please. I want to see it, your pretty little scrap of lace and silk and ribbon. Show, me, you gorgeous beast, please. I want to drown in your beauty, absolutely lose myself in you.”

“You first,” grunted Sherlock.

Could John see that she was terrified? No, she could not because she was licking her lips, and after downing the last of her drink and setting the glass on the counter, turning and curling a beckoning finger towards Sherlock.

She walked backwards into the sitting room. Sherlock followed.

* * *

Sherlock stared.

“Surprised?” John’s hands were on her hips. She struck a pose.

“Ye-e-s.”

“Ha! I did a bit of a switch at the last minute. I thought, why buy anything practical or utilitarian? What’s the point? For what—and for whom—am I going to be wearing these things? Not chasing criminals or doing laundry or working at the surgery.”

Sherlock passed in front of her, without blinking or averting her gaze from John’s body. Black satin bra overlaid with gold lace. Black suspenders and knickers peeking out from a gold lace skirt. Black stockings and, perhaps most incredible, black high-heeled shoes.

“Lingerie is about seduction, no?” John laid a hand on Sherlock’s chest and pushed her gently.

Sherlock dropped into her armchair. She wanted to reply, but she just nodded. She didn’t trust her voice to not betray her.

“Then prepare to be seduced, Sherlock Holmes.” John dropped a pillow on the floor, in front of Sherlock. Then she carefully knelt on it, tilting her head up, met Sherlock’s gaze.

She’s going to come, right here, right at my feet, thought Sherlock, with no little wonder.

John reached across her chest and fingered the corner of the bra. The gold lace came away in her hand, revealing the slope of a breast and a nipple.

Sherlock reached down and whispered, “Not erectile tissue. No engorgement of blood. Contraction of smooth muscle. Nerves spread more widely in females than males.” She brushed her thumb back and forth over the dusky bud as she spoke.

John hummed. “Doctor, remember? Doesn’t explain how good it feels—.“

She sprang, launching herself into Sherlock’s lap, filling Sherlock’s mouth. Sherlock’s tongue swirled round her nipple, memorizing the taste and texture.

DOO-dee-DOO-dee!

FUCK!

FUCK, FUCK, FUCK!

Two foreheads touching. Two groans.

Sherlock eased John aside.

“A case! Really, Sherlock?!” cried John angrily. “Good to know where I stand in the hierarchy!”

Sherlock got to her feet and headed toward the kitchen. “It’s not a case!” she replied. Not with that ringtone. She sighed.

“It’s Mycroft.”

* * *

John rinsed the last glass and wiped it dry. Then she set it down, upside down on the drying rack beside the rest of them.

She was adjusting the earphone “… _Opera for Idiots, Part Two: The Libretto_ …” when she felt a hand on her shoulder. She took the phone from Sherlock.

“Hello?”

“I would like to apologise, and then I would like to explain. And would like to keep apologising and keep explaining until we are just talking. Until I am no longer afraid.”

John smiled. “I’m listening.”

* * *

Mycroft’s lips were moving down the slope of John’s neck to her shoulder.

“…and then we had a case. Stolen lingerie…”

“Ah, yes, the ‘nicked knickers.’”

“Yeah, Sherlock talked me out of the longer title. Oh, right there, love.”

“Right here?” Mycroft teased the spot with her tongue.

John hummed and reached back to weave her fingers in Mycroft’s hair.

“So that’s how I ended up with this.”

Mycroft’s hands tightened at John’s waist, pressing her fingertips into the pink silk. “It’s beautiful.” She scraped her teeth across John’s skin. “You’re beautiful.”

“Mycroft.” John took Mycroft’s hand in hers.

“Of course, my dear.” She nuzzled at the nape of John’s neck while slipping both hands beneath the garment and cupping her breasts.

“Oh, God, yes,” groaned John. She reached behind her and flipped up the edge of the slip up and the top of the tiny knickers down and began rubbing her bare bottom against Mycroft’s trouser-covered crotch. “Would you believe that Sherlock even helped me pick this out?”

“Really?” Mycroft halted for a moment, then resumed her caressing.

“She’s been just amazing. So mature—well, except for the bit about the hair on my chest—and accepting. It’s wonderful. I can hardly believe it.”

Mycroft grunted.

John turned and stroked Mycroft’s tie.

“Your blindfold,” said Mycroft.

John smiled.

“But first.” Mycroft slid the straps off of John’s shoulders, and, after John freed her arms, peeled the silk down to her waist. Then she buried her face in John’s cleavage, licking and biting at the swells of flesh.

“More,” pleaded John, throwing her head back and closing her eyes.

Mycroft lifted John off the bed. John locked her legs around Mycroft’s waist as they turned.

Now, John was perched on the edge of the bed with Mycroft’s mouth latched to her nipple. Mycroft’s hungry, luscious, exquisitely clever mouth moved from one to the other and back to the first in what seemed to John a deliciously infinite loop of pleasure.

John’s groans grew louder and louder until, suddenly, she felt Mycroft turn to stone in her arms.

Her eyes flew open just as she heard the _click_.

All she saw was the tip of her own gun. All she heard was Sherlock’s voice.

“You were right, John. I can’t share you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock's quoting breast cancer statistics from [this site](http://www.cancerresearchuk.org/). John's outfit with Sherlock is inspired by Agent Provocateur's [Liu-Liu](http://www.agentprovocateur.com/gb_en/liu-liu-suspender-black-gold) line and her outfit with Mycroft is inspired by their [Amelea](http://www.agentprovocateur.com/gb_en/amelea-slip-pink-black) line.
> 
> I was looking for detective-inspired cocktails and did not find as many as I hoped. [Here](http://foreveryoungadult.com/tag/agatha-christie) is a lady who reviews Agatha Christie novels and makes creates cocktails inspired by them. I also found a recipe for a Sherlock Holmes made of single-malt scotch and lapsang souchong, which sounds perfectly disgusting.


	11. Interlude

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter contains references to drug use, addiction, and syringes.

An intimacy arises when a person and a thing grow so close that the inert object becomes an extension of the dynamic mind. This may be seen between carpenter and tools, artist and brushes, surgeon and scalpel. Or addict and the instrument of addiction.

Sherlock barely noticed the syringe between her fingers, barely noted her own movements as she prepared it. Her mind was otherwise occupied. She saw pink and black, felt cool silk and pebbled lace, heard sighs and grunts.

She needed to distort the images, the textures, the sounds until they were unrecognisable, until they were no longer her soulmate, undressing for another, folding into another’s embrace, arching into another’s touch. That the other was Sherlock’s sibling and also John’s soulmate made no difference to the addict. She wanted a fix, and here was a first-grade reason.

Betrayal.

John was betraying Sherlock and would go on betraying her. Brazenly. Blatantly. With an overnight bag in hand. With a cheery ‘Off to shag your sister!’ and a wave.

Of course, that was the addict talking.

John was concerned. John had voiced her concerns. John had speculated, aloud, as to Sherlock’s concerns. John had attempted to discuss her concerns and Sherlock’s speculated concerns on no fewer than four occasions in the past three days. Sherlock had forestalled all John’s efforts and had insisted, calmly, politely, that she was fine.

She was not fine. She was born ‘not fine’ and would die ‘not fine’ and every day in-between that she did not chemically alter her brain would be the very definition ‘not fine.’ So said the addict.

But if John discovered that Sherlock was using, something fragile between two of them would be broken, perhaps irrevocably, and John would be devastated.

How devastated? enquired the addict. As devastated, for example, as Sherlock herself was, right now, knowing that some kilometres away, another’s tongue was lapping at John’s cunt, sucking at her clit, making her weep with pleasure?

Weeping with pleasure, indeed, Sherlock scoffed. The addict was overplaying her hand. Melodrama toppling reason.

Sherlock set the syringe in its case and rolled up her sleeve. She could deceive John. She could even, for a time, deceive Mycroft. ‘No one deceives like an addict’ was a compliment given that the career that Mycroft had made of cloak-and-dagger, smoke-and-mirror, high-stakes flimflammery.

John would go on betraying Sherlock; therefore, Sherlock would go on deceiving John until…she held up the syringe and focused her eyes on the tip…someone got hurt.

Just then a dark voice, much darker than the addict’s, rose from deep within Sherlock and said,

Don’t wait. Make them hurt now.

* * *

“I can’t share you.”

“Sherlock.” John slipped out of Mycroft’s arms and stepped to the side. She was facing Sherlock and the gun; Mycroft was facing the opposite direction, leaning forward with her hands on the edge of bed, her head bent.

There was no reflective surface in which Mycroft could observe Sherlock. She could only listen for she dare not turn. Her mind was accustomed to making complex and delicate calculations and even more complex and delicate decisions based on those calculations, but she needed a critical piece of information before she could settle on the probability that Sherlock would actually shoot John. And for that, she had to lure Sherlock into speaking.

“I told you so, Sherlock,” said Mycroft calmly.

“What?” cried John. “Really, Mycroft?!”

Mycroft ignored her and continued, “I told you that you would find yourself in my position one day, and I would recall your words to you, and they would sting badly. At the moment, you’re attempting to remove John from the place that she has chosen to be in order to assuage your petty-minded, self-absorbed jealousy!” Mycroft let her voice rise in indignation.

“This is madness!” cried John.

Sherlock said nothing.

Mycroft hated to manipulate John, but the devil was apparently driving the scene. She went on. “It _is_ madness to invade a home and consign three people to death, for that is assuredly what Sherlock is doing and she knows it, but she doesn’t care, you see, John, she isn’t just mad. She’s _high_.”

“No,” John said quickly.

“Did you make a list, Sherlock?” asked Mycroft. “Of everything you’ve taken. It’s a pact that we have, John.”

“She’s not high, Mycroft. In my heart…”

“Hearts make for poor instruments of observation, John,” said Mycroft. “What do your eyes tell you? And Sherlock, you could at least do John the courtesy of letting her dress while you come down with your case of the vapours!” Once again, Mycroft halted on a crescendo, but she was out of ammunition. She could only wait.

Something hit the carpet. It was very light, much lighter than a gun or a body.

“Oh, God,” breathed John. She let out one high-pitched giggle. “You came all this way with a loaded syringe in your pocket? Extraordinary. My extraordinary girl.”

But Mycroft wasn’t so easily satisfied. “It’s a prop, John. Probably full of water. No one deceives like a—“

“Then I’ll just shoot up right now and there won’t be problem,” said John. “You’re planning to kill me anyway, so what does it matter?”

Stupid girl.

“I’m sure there’s a strap somewhere, excuse me, Sherlock, yes, keep it right there, I’m just looking for—“

“Stop. I’m not high.”

She’s _not_ high. Probability plummeted, which called for action on Mycroft’s part. She tensed.

“I just don’t understand,” said Sherlock.

“What, love?” asked John softly.

“How can you love us both?”

There was a pause. Mycroft was ready to spring when John replied,

“I’m not the first woman to do so.”

Remarkable. John was treading thin water, playing with fire, any metaphor you like, but Mycroft could feel the tension ebb, not just from her, but from the whole room.

“She loved you. She loved Mycroft. Passionately. One no more or less than the other, it doesn’t work like that. Neither does this.”

Mycroft didn’t need to turn her head to know that John was touching her chest where their names were etched.

“You can’t know that. You never met her. We’ve never spoken of her,” said John.

“I don’t need to. I know how you love me and how you love each other. You learned that somewhere. And not from a father.”

Certainly not.

“I love you both just like she loved you both, but not for the same reasons and not in the same way. She wasn’t proud of you for the same reasons that she was proud of Mycroft. She didn’t worry about you for the same reasons, either. I don’t live with Mycroft. I don’t work alongside her.”

“You could.”

“I don’t want to.”

Well that stung a bit. Not as much as a bullet in the back of the head, but…

“Ever since ‘The Study in Pink’ was posted, what happens the first of every month?”

“I proof your blog entries.”

“The first time, I was so nervous, I vomited.”

“I’m not surprised. You use an awful lot of unnecessary commas and periods. Very few actual contractions. One sentence ran on for two pages!”

“It’s so intimate, so private, even though the final product ends up on the Internet for the entire globe to read. I would sooner let Mycroft stick her tongue up my arse than let her see a rough draft!”

Well now, that was just rude.

And odd.

Should Mycroft be more offended by the lack of confidence in her editorial or anilingual skills? She didn’t have time to ponder the question long because metal was being thrust in her hand.

The gun. Crisis averted. Well done, Mycroft.

They were whispering.

“I need…I need…”

“I’m here, love. I’m here.”

Mycroft straightened. “Cramp,” she said testily, but no one heard her.

They were cocooned around each other, kissing, and the scene was so, well, so…

Leave it to Sherlock to drive Mycroft out of her own bedroom! But Mycroft’s libido was fickle on a good day, and the night’s theatrics had quashed all but her most chivalrous of impulses.

When she reached the doorway, she heard her own mobile buzz in the pocket of her jacket. Then Sherlock’s mobile rang.

“Okay, no one is getting laid until you both agree to turn off your bloody phones!”

Sherlock and Mycroft were looking at their respective devices when they finally answered John in one voice.

“It _was_ turned off.”

“What’s the hell going on?” cried John.

“Baker Street,” they replied.


	12. Hand to Genitals (part 1 of 2)

“Gas leak.” Sherlock held open the door of the taxi.

“Gas leak?” echoed John as she exited.

Sherlock stopped and put her mobile to her ear. “Sherlock Holmes.”

John watched Sherlock’s eyes flash, then darken and was reminded of a summer storm.

“Of course. How could I refuse?” Sherlock dropped the phone in her coat pocket. “I’ve been summoned. Envelope addressed to me was just delivered to Scotland Yard. Oh, and this is was only made to look like a gas leak.”

“Good Lord!” cried John.

Sherlock slipped back into the taxi. “Coming?”

“If you want me to,” John said stiffly. She stood by the open door with arms crossed.

Sherlock held out her hand in invitation. “Of course. I’d be lost without you.”

* * *

"Brought you a little getting-to-know-you present. Oh, that’s what it’s all been for, hasn’t it? All your little puzzles; making me dance—all to distract me from this.” Sherlock held up the memory stick. A door opened behind her, and she turned.

“Evening,” said John. She wore a coat that Sherlock didn’t recognise. Her expression was wrong. Even when John had a gun pointed at her face, she didn’t look like this.

This was defeat. Surrender.

“This is a turn-up, isn’t it, Sherlock?”

“John. What the hell…?”

“Bet you never saw _this_ coming.” John took her hands from her pockets and pulled back the sides of the coat. “What...would you like me...to make her say...next?”

A bomb. A red dot dancing.

“Gottle o’ geer…”

“Stop it,” said Sherlock.

“Nice touch, this: the pool where Carl died. I stopped him. I can stop John Watson, too. Stop her heart. Pity that, it’s such a pretty little thing. So _decorative_.”

John’s eyes were full of apology, and Sherlock understood: whoever was behind this had seen the names inked on John’s skin. A small part of Sherlock wanted to silently reassure John that she was not disappointed or even surprised; she had always known a day like this would come. But the larger part of Sherlock was still playing the game, and she longed to confront this new, and fascinating, opponent, face-to-face.

“WHO ARE YOU?” she roared.

* * *

John could not believe it.

With a snap of fingers, the nightmare was over. She looked at Sherlock and panted.

“What just happened?”

“Someone changed her mind. The question is: who?”

* * *

“John.”

“I knew you were here, somewhere.”

John tore her gaze from Sherlock, who was on the other side of the glass, standing in the centre of a group of officers, grilling and being grilled about the night’s events.

“Would you like to go?” asked Mycroft when their eyes met.

John sighed and glanced back at Sherlock. “Yes. They’ve taken my statement thrice, and I’ve been out here for over an hour. Moriarty has everyone’s full attention.”

“Save mine,” said Mycroft in a low voice. “I would very much like to escort you home, or, if you feel unsafe, I can arrange for you to stay at a safehouse or hotel. Of course, you also are more than welcome at my residence.“

John let Mycroft guide her toward the lift. “What I said about living with you—“

Mycroft shook her head. “You belong at Baker Street, but I will have you know that I did serve for a brief period as editor of a small, but distinguished, literary magazine…”

* * *

“No waiting. No interruptions. Just fuck me.”

John climbed into Mycroft’s lap, straddling her. She yanked her jumper and vest over her head and tossed them to the floor of the car, where they joined her shoes, socks, and jeans.

“Perhaps, I should signal to Georges increase the heat,” said Mycroft, wrapping her arms around John’s bare torso.

“I like to think we’ll be fogging up the windows before we reach Baker Street.”

John was alive and safe and unharmed. Half-naked in Mycroft's arms. Exquisitely impatient for her carnal attentions.

Mycroft’s heart sang; her blood pounded, and her mind forgot finesse and caution in favour of enthusiasm. She returned John’s wet, sloppy kisses and skimmed her hands over John’s skin.

Immediately, John began to grind against Mycroft’s crotch. Soon, they were both breathing hard.

John pulled back; her voice was ragged.

“At the risk of….”

Mycroft pushed a hand beneath John’s pants and sank the pads of five fingers into her buttock.

John threw her head back and groaned. Now she was practically bouncing in Mycroft’s lap. “…oh, God, yes, yes, grab my arse, please, at the risk of killing the mood…”

“Impossible,” said Mycroft, just before she cupped John’s breast and attacked the nipple with tongue and teeth.

“…holy fuck, yes, suck, suck, oh, the other, please, hard, just like, Christ Almighty, Sherlock is right: I don’t flirt with her the way I flirt with you. Oh, oh, oh…”

John’s hips bucked; her hands were on Mycroft’s head. Mycroft licked her own name on John's skin, over and over and over.

“…I don’t know why, with you, I get so fucking…” John's voice faded. 

Mycroft's mind mirrored the car’s interior, a tiny, closed space in which heady sensations were swirling and building: the tickling heat of John’s breath, the sharp scent of her arousal, the feel of her plump arse in Mycroft’s hand and her pebbling nipple between Mycroft’s lips.

Mycroft was drunk.

The loss of control should have terrified her, but between the leather and the glass, between her body and John’s, she felt contained. Safe. Free to…

…play.

It was glorious.

She pulled off John’s nipple with a _pop_. “Maybe it’s the power,” she growled as she was hit with the force of John slamming her upper body against hers and rubbing like a frenzied beast. “Or the suits,” Mycroft added in a lighter, more self-deprecating tone, looking down at her dishevelled clothes. “Or…” Mycroft twisted John until she faced forward, her back to Mycroft’s chest. Then she leaned forward and tucked a tendril of John’s hair behind her ear and whispered,

“You’re a filthy girl who needs her pretty bottom spanked and her pretty cunt fucked on a regular basis.”

“OH, GOD, YES!”

Mycroft hurled John over her knee and yanked her pants down.

SMACK! SMACK!

“Oh, God!” groaned John.

“Naughty girl.”

For a moment, Mycroft thought she had gone too far. This was madness, the kind of madness that made you put a loaded gun to your soulmate’s forehead.

But John was giggling and kicking her legs.

No, it was play. Just play. And with John, Mycroft _could_ play.

Amazing.

Another time, another place, Mycroft might push the scene further. For now, she said,

“Fucking my nice tweed suit. Making me start a war with Russia. Naughty, naughty girl.”

SMACK! SMACK!

John’s giggling turned to raucous laughter and squeals. Mycroft pulled John upright, back into her lap. She kissed John’s still-laughing mouth and watched John’s face contort with pleasure as she resumed her rutting.

She was very close; Mycroft had made a study of John’s video performance and knew the signs intimately.

“Come, my precious girl,” she whispered.

“Oh, God, Mycroft, love!”

Mycroft forced herself not to blink. Sherlock could have all the syringes, all the chemicals and compounds, all the items on every list she’d ever composed.

 _This_ was Mycroft’s drug.

John’s pleasure. John’s laughter. John’s safety. John’s happiness.

“I love you,” said Mycroft. It was cliché, but true. And there was nothing else worth saying.

“Me, too, love, oh, God, so much.” John’s hips were moving in slow figure 8’s. “There’s another, a little one, oh, oh, if I just….”

Mycroft put her hands under John’s thighs, supporting her. “Right there?” she teased.

“Yeah,” said John, looking down through half-lidded eyes. Then she sighed and crumpled sideways, off Mycroft’s lap. Mycroft moved in the opposite direction until they were facing each other, each tucked in her respective corner.

John’s legs were parted, and Mycroft openly ogled her damp mons. This doctor, this soldier, this highly-professional and consummately-competent woman had come completely undone in Mycroft’s arms. And there was the raw, crude, corporal evidence.

Astounding.

When Mycroft looked up, John was smiling. She reached down and spread her folds.

Mycroft crawled towards her. “May I kiss you?”

“Please.”

How many times had Mycroft fantasised of this moment? How many times had she fought against the urge to sink her teeth in the nearest pillow, cushion, or armrest and scream John’s name at the very thought of this scene?

And here it was. Her lips on John’s clit, John’s legs over her shoulders.

John moaned and flailed. Mycroft heard her claw at the window and the seat and felt her nails scratching at the back of her head and arms. She chanted Mycroft’s name in every erotic intonation imaginable—and Mycroft was certain she had imagined them all.

Mycroft pressed kiss after kiss to John’s core. Then she probed gently with her tongue. John groaned, “Oh, god, just a bit, tongue-fucking, a second or two, that’s all I need, oh, oh, oh…” The whimpering was so sweet, so _fucking_ delicious, that Mycroft lapped at her for a short eternity, just to hear it over and over.

“Oh, oh, oh…”

Finally, Mycroft rose up and studied John. She was, like Mycroft, soaked with sweat, reeking of sex, and folded in a heinously uncomfortable position. Completely lust-addled.

It was perfect.

They held each other’s gaze for a long moment.

Then John glanced at the window behind Mycroft.

“I believe we’re at our destination,” said Mycroft, with a smile.

John laughed. Then her face fell and she bit her lip. “Mycroft…?”

“Anything, my dear.”

“Let’s go upstairs and make love.”

Mycroft nodded. “I thought you’d never ask,” she said, her gallant tone masking the fear creeping down her spine.

* * *

“It seems ridiculous to dress just to undress,” said John when she was naked again. She knelt on the bed next to Mycroft, who stood and removed her suit jacket.

“Given that my mobile’s off, removing the image from CCTV would be a challenge.” Mycroft walked to the wardrobe. “But not impossible.”

John snorted. “Thank you for returning my gun.”

“It’s in everyone’s interest that it escape mention in the official record.”

John raised up and opened her arms at Mycroft’s return, hugging her tightly. Then she pulled away and ran two fingers down the length of Mycroft’s tie. “Whatever you want.”

Mycroft took John’s hand and kissed it. “Keep your eyes closed, please.”

John shut her eyes at once, sat on back her heels, and listened.

Bedding was being turned down efficiently. Then she was being lain on her side. The sounds of quiet undressing receded as one thought dogged all others:

Do not fuck this up, Watson.

The bed springs squeaked and the mattress bowed and even through the oblique, glancing skin-to-skin contact, John recognised sinewy muscle covered by cool skin. Muscle, skin, and perhaps even hard bone, were trembling violently.

John’s heart broke. She heard voices in her head, barking . Sherlock said ‘Think!’ and she herself said, ‘For God’s sake, say something, Watson!’ John wracked her brain and finally blurted out,

“I’m the big spoon! Yea! I’m _never_ the big spoon.” Wow, that was probably not…

Mycroft chuckled and reached for John’s hand and brought it forward. John nuzzled at Mycroft’s neck and felt the tremors ease a bit.

“Rest,” said Mycroft. “While I…”

How delicate was something when even Mycroft _bloody_ Holmes could not describe it?

John didn’t protest. Or even respond. She simply curled her other arm under her head and surrendered to fatigue.

* * *

John woke, muddled. She cracked one eye.

There was skin. A neck. She found her way to it and nuzzled and licked. Then she closed her eye and kept licking, slowly and deliberately. The act was not unlike that of a mother cat cleaning her kitten, and the metaphor must have also occurred to the recipient, because very soon the silence was broken.

By purring. It was adorable.

John jerked, clumsily pulling up on her right arm and unwinding her numb left arm, but she never ceased her licking. The purring grew louder. John licked down spinal ridges and beneath an arm to ribs’ edge, where it encountered a swath of sandpapery skin. She didn’t hesitate in her ministrations. She felt a thumb in her mouth and sucked at it. Then her entire body was being hoisted, over and around and up. Then lips were caressing hers.

Suddenly, everything was darker. And warmer. They were hidden beneath the covers. A long leg was riding up John’s leg, and a hand was guiding her hand, down, down, until…

“You’re wet!” John winced at the surprise in her voice. “Oh, God, fuck, I mean…”

Mycroft laughed. “Consequence of melting.”

John fell silent, barely registering the tiny kisses that Mycroft was peppering along her brow; she gave the whole of her attention to the hand on hers. When she felt she had mastered the slow, light strokes, she asked, “Like that?”

“Precisely like that.” Mycroft abandoned her instruction in favour of curling her whole body around John. Their lower halves were slotted together, rocking gently back and forth, and they might have stayed in this quiet, loving cocoon forever, but John was gripped with a sudden, raw, overpowering need. She drew her free hand to Mycroft’s jaw and held her head still. She asked in a hoarse voice, “Do you need tender?” Even John was not quite sure what she was asking, only that she needed Mycroft’s consent. “Gentle? Do you need it? Tell me!” She squeezed Mycroft’s jaw for emphasis.

“I need _you_.”

“I’m going to pull back the covers and look into your eyes. Just your eyes. They’d better be blue.” Why was her voice so rigid?

“J-j-john…”

John reached up and yanked back the duvet. Then her hand returned to Mycroft’s jaw. Early morning light was filtering into the room, and John stared into—

“The most gorgeous pair of blue eyes in the world.”

John’s other hand was still at the centre of their tangled bodies, still teasing Mycroft. Mycroft’s trembling resurfaced, but her clinging limbs, her dilated pupils, her staccato breath, told John that this time it was not fear gripping her.

“Mine.” John pushed her hand harder and deeper into Mycroft. “No running away—for either of us—anymore. _My_ soulmate. _My_ love.” Then she closed her eyes and bent her head to lick a broad stripe down each side of Mycroft’s neck. “I need to own you, to claim you, to, to…”

John growled and shook her head. She could not get the words right.

Mycroft whimpered. “Mark me, John, please. I’m yours.”

There it was.

“Christ, you are the smart one,” said John. She sank her teeth into the slope of Mycroft’s neck and felt every muscle in Mycroft’s body tense.

Mycroft was coming. Without a word. Without a noise. Without a movement.

John stilled. After a few moments, she slipped her hand from Mycroft’s body, stretching her aching muscles. Mycroft pushed John’s shoulders, turning her away and spooning behind her.

John stayed quiet and motionless, with eyes still closed, waiting for Mycroft to do…

…whatever Mycroft needed to do.

Then a damp hand clasped John’s and squeezed.

John squeezed back and mused aloud. “Melting. I remember that conversation. That’s when I fell in love with you.” She wondered if Mycroft could pinpoint a moment like that. Probably not.

“When you refused to spy on Sherlock for money.”

John snorted. Her thoughts were jumbled. “Do you think you’re beautiful?”

“No.”

“I do. I think you’re _spectacular_.”

Mycroft kissed John’s neck. “I think I want to devour you.”

“Do you think Sherlock’s beautiful?”

“Yes.”

“I do, too.”

“Well, that makes three of us.”

John laughed. Then she reached for a pillow. “Mycroft…?”

“Anything, my dear.”

John rolled onto the pillow. She closed her eyes and turned her head. “Talk to me while I come. Anything. Thucydides.”

“You know I didn’t scarcely believe you the first time you asked.”

“Your voice is your presence. It’s the first part of you I encountered. It’s, it’s…”

John cringed. Why could she never explain things properly?

Mycroft’s hand was on her head. “Listen, John. Listen to me.”

John pressed her face into the bed and began to rut. “Oh, God, yes,” she mumbled.

* * *

But for the once, John had kept her eyes closed the entire time.

Extraordinary.

Mycroft considered how best to honour that trust. With another confidence?

“I’ve watched your video one-hundred and seven times.”

“Holy Fuck!” John grinned. “Pervert. In succession or did you spread it out?” She was fucking the pillow in earnest now, and it was beautiful.

“At the end of the day if I’ve been successful in my work, I allow myself the luxury of viewing it.”

“Watching me masturbate is your reward for saving the world?”

“On gold star days, twice.”

“Well, I’d say today,” John pushed up onto her forearms, “you were a very, very good girl.”

“Indeed.”

* * *

“Mycroft…?” said a small voice from beneath a pillow.

Mycroft smiled at the ceiling. “Anything, my dear.”

* * *

At the first sound, Mycroft grabbed her umbrella and flew down the stairs.

“Jo—!“

“Do not wake her.” Mycroft’s tone conveyed both the warning and the threat, but she tapped Sherlock’s chest with the handle of her umbrella, anyway.

They locked eyes. Then Sherlock blinked.

“John—”

“Would like a holiday.”

Sherlock scowled.

“You’re invited. So am I. She’s going, regardless.”

“Moriarty is—“

“Your archenemy. Not hers. You gave me two hours, but since you and I both know that I am the more munificent, I’ll give you twelve. Then I want an answer. If you can put aside your new obsession—oh, are we really going to pretend that this is anything but?—and our petty rivalry to see to your soulmate’s wellbeing, then it’s a ‘yes.’ If not, then, well, I’m sure you’ll enjoy the colourful picture postcard and be alarmed at the thought of how much _sex_ John and I are having.”

Sherlock leaned into Mycroft with nostrils flared and eyes flashing. Mycroft returned her stare, not with hot anger or icy disdain, but rather with calm, gentle wisdom. Silently, she said,

_She loves me, and I love her. Make me choose, and I will choose her. My soulmate._

Sherlock sputtered. “Sex doesn’t alarm me.”

Schoolyard taunts? Of course. “How would you know?”

Mycroft pushed past Sherlock and continued down the stairs.


	13. Hands to Genitals (part 2 of 2)

“John.”

Sherlock put a hand on John’s bare shoulder.

John rolled over and cracked one eye. “Moriarty?”

Sherlock shook her head. “Still at large.”

John hummed. “Game’s still on then. Wake me up when it’s over.” She closed her eye and pulled the covers up to her chin.

“John…”

“You should’ve asked her, Sherlock. If her name was John.”

Sherlock flinched, but said nothing.

John wasn't done. “You two seem made for each other. She _enjoyed_ having you point a gun at her.”

For the first time since its purchase, Sherlock wondered if the Belstaff was warm enough. She studied the bare wall.

John sat up, draping her arms over bent knees. “You told me when we first met that you were married to your work, and when the work is cases, something abstract, it’s okay, I can play second fiddle, but when it has a face and a name and wears a posh suit and posh shoes that go _clippety-clippety_ on pool tiles…”

John looked Sherlock the way Sherlock looked at liver cells under a microscope, with intense—but impersonal—interest. Sherlock quashed the urge to vomit and said, “You’re different.” She turned toward the open doorway. “Mycroft’s different.” She looked around the room, putting the pieces together. “You’ve had a lot of sex. We should have a lot of sex. So that I can be different, too.”

“Think it is that simple?”

Not think, hope.

John reached for her mobile. “It’s been over five hours, Sherlock. You didn’t even notice I was gone!”

“I was talking to you the whole time! Even when you’re not here, you’re here.” Sherlock touched her temple.

“I’ve got company.” John dropped the phone on the bed and pointed at Sherlock’s head. ”She’s there, too, now. I’m jealous. Not put-a-gun-to-your-head jealous, but you told me and I didn’t listen. You’re married to your _work_. It will always come first.”

Was John mad?

“You’re wrong! It’s first, John, then cases, then science. First, John, then cases, then science. First, John….”

John smiled as if Sherlock had set the sofa on fire, again. A second urge to vomit required quashing.

“Where does Moriarty fit in that song of yours? Don’t lie to me and tell me that she’s just a case, Sherlock. She’s more addictive than any substance you could put in a syringe.”

“She’s a puzzle. And right now she’s _the_ puzzle. She might be taking up space in my mind, but she’s not here!” Sherlock shrugged out of her coat and opened her blouse until John’s name was visible. “She’s not in my heart! Or on it!”

“You told her that you didn’t have one.”

“I told her that I was _reliably informed_ I didn’t have one, which is true. Only someone who’s never seen you and me together could believe that I don’t _actually_ have one. Don’t be an idiot!”

John’s smile turned a degree or two warmer. Then she scratched the underside of her chin, and said, “I figured it out: I don’t flirt with you because I am the wife.”

“THE WHAT?!”

John _was_ mad.

“I’m the wife. Wash your knickers, buy the milk, do the lino, make the tea, nag you to eat—“

“ _The wife_ who shoots and kills someone forcing me to commit suicide! _The wife_ who agrees to be blown to bits in a Semtex vest to rid the world of a criminal mastermind! _The wife_ who—“

“With Mycroft, I get to be a girlfriend. Or a mistress. Or, I don’t know, someone special and precious and—“

Up was down and down was up. Who was this woman in this bed? Not John Watson. Not _her_ John Watson!

“WELL, I AM BLOODY WELL GOING ON THIS HOLIDAY OF YOURS, AND I AM GOING TO TREAT YOU LIKE _TART_ FOR THE LOT OF IT!”

John stared. Then she did the most beautiful thing that John Watson ever did: she laughed.

“John. First.” John nodded, but Sherlock wasn’t certain. Did she understand? “John. First,” she repeated.

John smiled a real John Watson smile. Sherlock’s chest lit like a jar of fireflies.

Finally!

She leaned forward and pressed her lips to the top of John’s head.

John looked over Sherlock’s shoulder. “Shower, then tea, then maybe…”

“My bed.”

* * *

Sherlock pulled back the plastic curtain and stepped inside.

“What are you doing?”

“I would think it would be obvious even to you, John. I’m going to assist you—“

“In washing myself?”

Sherlock hummed. “And request your assistance in-kind.”

John snorted. “Just so you know, I’m of the opinion that shower sex is always more enjoyable in fiction than reality. Pass me the soap, please.”

“No, I shan’t. You implied earlier that I don’t consider you to be something of great value. My first act in remedying that impression is to catalogue every millimetre of your physical person.”

John grinned. “Thorough inventory?”

Sherlock’s voice fell to a low rumble. “ _Very_ thorough.”

“Christ, you make me wet.”

“And here I thought I was blocking the spray.”

“Git.”

* * *

John threw her head back. “Sherlock. Oh, God.”

“I applaud your prioritisation.”

“Git.”

“Your git. My fingers are long, John. I could probe much deeper.”

“For, ah, ah, my pleasure or for inventory purposes?”

“Are the responses different?”

“Yes. No to the former, yes to the latter.”

“You’d let me finger your cunt for my own edification alone?”

“Right now, I’d say yes to pretty much any experiment you’d suggest. Oh, God, Sherlock. I hope the water doesn’t turn cold. I’m so close.”

“I turned the water off five minutes ago, John.”

“I stand corrected—“

“You’re barely standing at all, John. I believe I’m bearing a good portion of your weight.”

“Sherlock!”

“Scratch that. All of your weight.”

* * *

“Shower sex. Not so bad. How’s the cataloguing?”

“Moving along swimmingly.”

“I’ll say.”

* * *

“That’s nice,” said John. Sherlock made an odd noise, one that John couldn’t readily identify. “What? You don’t believe me?”

“Just recording an observation.”

“About?”

“Differences in reactions to stimuli.”

Sherlock’s hushed, slightly strained tone was out of synch with her matter-of-fact words. John closed her eyes and leaned her head back into Sherlock scrubbing fingers. “So if I shampooed _your_ hair…?” she suggested.

There was a second, much more familiar, noise. Well, washing Sherlock’s hair in the shower was not going to work without a ladder. “In a chair. At the sink,” said John.

She got an echo of the second noise and smiled, and for the next few minutes, was caught up in a whirlwind of water and towels and dressing gowns. A chair was positioned just-so, and soon the tiny space was filled with a sharp citrus fragrance.

Sherlock breathed open-mouthed. Her eyes were closed. Her face was contorted in an almost pained expression.

“Kind of an intimate act,” said John as she massaged Sherlock’s scalp, “but one that we let complete strangers do at the hairdresser’s.”

Sherlock’s eyes flew open. They were dark and wild. “You’re the only one who’s shampooed my hair since puberty, and you’re the only one I will allow to do it until I die!” Proclamation issued, she relaxed back into John’s touch.

“I know you’ve had your hair cut since puberty.”

“I cut my own hair now. When I was younger…”

John stopped. “Mycroft?! You let Mycroft…”

“I let Mycroft _cut_ my hair. Only I…” She waved a hand at her head. “I have very sensitive follicles. My Achilles heel.”

John resumed her massage, moving to the nape of Sherlock’s neck. Sherlock groaned.

“You’re wrong. It’s not a weakness. It’s just one more piece of the beautiful, brilliant puzzle that is Sherlock Holmes.”

Sherlock huffed. “Beautiful, brilliant are easy. Good? Good’s impossible.”

John slowed her hands. “You _are_ good, Sherlock.”

“Says the woman I threatened with her own gun.”

“Mycroft and I just had a lot of sex. You just deduced it. Are you going to shoot me? Or her?”

Sherlock shook her head.

“Learning to do better is part of being good.” John stopped and kissed Sherlock’s forehead. She grabbed a fistful of wet hair and tugged gently. “Can you come from this?”

Sherlock nodded.

“Do you want to?”

Sherlock nodded again. Then she parted the two sides of the dressing gown.

As John worked, she watched Sherlock fondled her own breast and mons. In a few minutes, she was biting her lip and curling to the side, trapping her hand between her legs.

John waited until Sherlock’s breathing slowed, then asked, “Rinse?”

Sherlock grunted.

* * *

“Sometimes I wonder,” said John as the water flowed, “how someone like me ended up with someone like you for a soulmate.”

“You?”

“Overweight, middle-aged, with the face—and body—of a flattened hedgehog.”

“Me?”

John snorted. “A goddess.”

Sherlock sat up. Drops of water darkened the silk of her dressing gown. “You are my beautiful…” She frowned, and her nose crinkled in that way that always made John want to kiss the tip of it. “You make my life liveable. You make wherever I am a home. You keep me right. You’re a point of light in the darkness. A bit of meaning in the chaos. Sickness, health, forsaking all others—well, everyone but _her_ —for as long as we live. You are my… _wife_?”

John smiled. “When you put it like that, it seems quite nice.” She took Sherlock’s hand and kissed her fingers. “Love, comfort, honour, keep. Always. How ‘bout a wedding night? I think your sister’s booking the honeymoon as we speak.”

“After tea?”

John laughed. She covered Sherlock’s head with a large towel and began rubbing. “After tea. I love you, Sherlock.”

* * *

“Sherlock…”

“Rest, John. When you wake, it’ll be night again.”

“Stay?”

Sherlock huffed. “Where else would I be?”

“Chasing after Moriarty.”

“I’m tired, John.”

“I don’t believe I’ve ever heard you say that.”

“I almost lost you. I need to…”

“I’m here.” John squeezed her hand. “Rest, Sherlock.”

* * *

Sherlock replayed John’s words.

_You are good, Sherlock._

_Love, comfort, honour, keep. Always._

_I love you, Sherlock._

Darkness lifted. Chaos stilled.

_Learning to do better is part of being good._

_I love you, Sherlock._

Sherlock reached for her phone.

**Yes. SH**

* * *

They were rolling. Together. A human log made of tangled limbs and nightclothes. Sherlock appeared to be testing how close they could come to the edge of the bed without losing balance and falling off. They rolled to one side, almost tipping, then rolled back to the other.

John giggled. “Is there a practical application for this?”

“Synchronization of movement may be advantageous, John. If we’re ever…”

The word ‘bomb’ dropped in John’s mind, and she stilled. “The scene at the pool. It could’ve gone very differently…”

“We would have survived, regardless.” Sherlock’s voice oozed confidence. This was the woman who strode into crime scenes and handed half of Scotland Yard their badges on a platter.

John ran her hands up and down Sherlock’s body, reassuring herself that all was intact.

“I’m here, John. So are you.”

“What do you want, Sherlock?”

In the darkness, anything seemed possible.

“To sit on your face.”

John sputtered. “Who is this woman in this bed? Not Sherlock Holmes. Not _my_ Sherlock Holmes!”

“You intimated earlier that you found my approach to sexual relations with you wanting. I am attempting a franker, cruder, more direct style of communication.”

John licked her lips. “Have a seat, my love.”

* * *

Sherlock mumbled something into the mattress. John crawled out from under her.

“No, thank you. I’m actually quite satisfied with hearing you beg me to finger you while I suck your clit.”

Sherlock mumbled something else.

“Yes, there _is_ a lot to be said for the direct approach, and I love you, too.”

* * *

John’s phone rang. She clicked on speaker phone.

“Good morning, Mycroft.”

“Good morning, my dear. You sound well-rested.”

“I’m well-rested, too!” piped Sherlock.

“Good morning, Sherlock.”

One set of eye-rolling was reflected in the mirror and—as acoustically improbable as it seemed—a second eye-rolling reverberated through the phone.

“The arrangements are made. We leave the day after tomorrow. Seven days, six nights. Secluded, secure, tropical. Ocean views. Three bedrooms. Swimming pool. A small study for me—I’m afraid my work won’t halt entirely—and a conservatory—“

“Laboratory,” corrected Sherlock.

“—where Sherlock can conduct various experiments on local flora and fauna of note.”

“Poisons and other weaponisable elements,” clarified Sherlock.

“Sounds like paradise. Thank you.” John grinned at Sherlock in the mirror. “I can’t believe we’re going on holiday together!”

“A sentiment shared by all involved,” said Mycroft.

John sighed and touched the names on her chest. “I never looked for you. I never thought there could actually be two of you. I thought it was just one man with a highly improbable name.”

“We considered every possibility,” said Mycroft. “And when things seemed untenable…”

“We stopped thinking,” said Sherlock.

“Until I walked into Barts lab. Do you know what I thought when I saw my name over your hearts? My very first thought?”

The three spoke as one.

“Finally.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A Valentine for Sebamher and all my other gentle readers. The fic is complete, but if you continue to watch this space, there may be an Easter egg in the form of a PWP epilogue of our ladies' holiday in paradise. 
> 
> Intimacy is trust and builds over time when trust is honoured and respected. In our ladies' case, there was a certain trust conferred by the soulmate mark, but the rest they earned the hard way.
> 
> Hope you enjoyed!


	14. Epilogue: Day 1 & 2 (Game Night & Film Night)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Day 1 & 2 of our ladies' holiday in paradise. PWP. John tries Game Night and Film Night with predictable results.

**Day One**

John fought the urge to laugh or scream.

“It is preliminary,” said Mycroft. “Every item is open to negotiation or outright veto.”

John studied the paper she’d been handed.

“You made a schedule for sharing me. Meals, activities, ‘private time.’ Thank you. This is thoughtful. I can tell that a lot of thought went into this. Why don’t we use it as a back-up plan?” She set the paper atop a dog-earned novel in the seat beside her. ”There may be things that we can do together, the three of us.”

Mycroft and Sherlock snorted. If they insisted on sitting side-by-side across from her and making identical—and identically adorable—noises, there was nothing for it but to smile.

“Surely we can manage breakfast together.”

“I don’t eat breakfast.”

“I don’t eat breakfast.”

 Another thing the two had in common, John noted, but she wasn’t ready to concede defeat yet. “Sitting by the pool or on the beach doesn’t require much in the way of interaction,” she argued.

They shrugged.

“Think about it, and I will think about this,” she said, nodding to the paper. “How much longer?”

“Two hours, forty-seven minutes,” said Mycroft.

John looked out the window. Nothing but blue sky and clouds. She sucked in deep breath and said,

“Situational disinhibition.”

They frowned. Identically. Adorably.

“It means behaving differently in a foreign versus a home environment. Doing things that you wouldn’t normally do because you aren’t where you normally are.”

“The case of the gap year student,” said Sherlock. John nodded.

“I’m familiar with the concept,” said Mycroft.

 “Well, I have it,” John said, leaning forward. “And the farther—and longer—I’m away from home, the more _disinhibited_ I become. Well, that’s all I wanted to say. Forewarned is forearmed and all that.”

She exhaled and leaned back and made a show of returning to the dog-eared novel, ignoring their lingering glances. 

* * *

She saw them return by a gate in the far wall of the compound and went to meet them.

“Security okay?”

They stared. Neither answered.

She extended her arms and pivoted. She had forced herself into the bikini and quickly covered up with a tunic and skirt, but to the most observant women in the world, she was not covered at all.

They saw everything, but were saying nothing.

“Not good?” She bit her lip and crossed her arms over her chest.

Mycroft cleared her throat and rushed toward her. “You look lovely,” she said quickly. “So lovely that perhaps Sherlock might be inspired to abandon her dark wool monstrosity for something a bit more climate-appropriate.” She shot a glance behind her.                                                   

“Oh, all right,” huffed Sherlock, taking off her coat. She looked at John. “No foul jumpers?”  

John shook her head. “Swimsuits and sarongs and sandals. We are in a tropical paradise. I intend to dress the part. Plus, I want this,” she touched their names on her chest, “on display at all times.”

Sherlock kissed her cheek and went inside. 

“Thank you, Mycroft, for making my wish come true.”

“My pleasure. Truly.”

* * *

John popped out of the water, gulping air and holding onto the side of the pool.

It was glorious. Cool water. Warm air. Bright sun. Ocean breeze. Nothing to do.

Her soulmates—both!—by her side.

A dream.

“John!”

She squinted.

Sherlock emerged from the cottage, waving a bottle. 

John swam back to the shallow end of the pool. “It would be very silly to get sunburned on the first day, wouldn’t it?”

“Indeed,” said Mycroft. She sat at a nearby ironwork table underneath the shade of a large umbrella.

Sherlock unfurled a long mat on the ground. “Allow me,” she said.

John smirked and laid face-down on the mat. She heard a pop and a squirt and then the cool cream was being rubbed into the skin along the nape of her neck. She looked away from the pool, bending her arms and pillowing her head on her hands. She watched the sole of Mycroft’s shoe as she crossed her legs.

Sherlock’s methodical application was almost clinical. Neck. Ears. Shoulders. Back. But every time her hands nudged beneath the straps of the bikini top, John felt a little jolt.

If John and Sherlock had been alone, John might have said something or done something, but Mycroft was right there. John’s eyes were trained on the shoe, which was now hanging casually off the tip of Mycroft’s foot.

Sherlock’s hands were at the waist of John’s bikini bottom, pushing just beneath tight fabric. Then she began massaging John’s exposed lower back with those firm, deep strokes that made John want to spread her legs and…

Stop.

Mycroft would not just sit by and watch Sherlock do whatever Sherlock was going to do. She might get angry or, worse, hurt. John’s whole body tensed. That was the last thing she wanted on the first day.

Maybe the schedule was a good idea.

“Be very thorough, Sherlock.”

“Obviously.”

John’s mind reeled.

Did Mycroft just give Sherlock permission to fuck John on the ground in front of her?

Or was Mycroft going to leave? Was it Sherlock’s turn? Where was that bloody schedule?!

John pushed up and squinted. With the sun’s glare, she could not see Mycroft, only hear her voice.

“It would be a pity to start our holiday off on the wrong foot.”

John’s head fell back onto the mat.

Sherlock’s hands were on her again, sliding shamelessly beneath the straps of the bikini top, pressing into the muscles of John’s back, just the way John loved.

Hard. Deep.

John hummed and spread her legs.

“Here,” said Mycroft.

If she was leaving, she wasn’t leaving yet.

There was something soft and firm under John’s hips. A rolled towel? A pillow? Whatever it was it made rutting the way her body wanted deliciously easy. So easy that John reached behind her back, unfastened the bikini top and slipped out of the straps entirely.

“John.” Sherlock’s hands were going over John’s back again, but just once, and then she moved down to John’s heels and began applying the cream to the back of John’s legs.

John opened her eyes and looked for the shoe. Still there.

Holy fuck!

This was happening. Mycroft wanted this to happen. Mycroft wanted to watch and Sherlock was, apparently, willing to be watched. A tiny moan escaped John’s lips.

Sherlock’s hands were caressing John’s buttocks beneath the bikini bottom. John tugged at the waistband. Sherlock’s hands covered hers and peeled the scrap of fabric down and off John’s legs.

When John’s bare mons grazed the towel, she began to moan in earnest, spreading her legs wide and rutting as if she were back at Baker Street in the privacy of her own bedroom.

As the sweetness built inside her, somewhere in her mind, a thought coalesced.

_I’m naked, fucking myself beside a pool, while Sherlock and Mycroft watch._

She came laughing.

* * *

“Other side, John.”

John flopped onto her back and covered her eyes with her hand.

“No tan above the wrists, remember?” she said.

“Of course,” said Sherlock; she was rubbing the cream in circles around John’s breasts. John could hear her smile through the peevishness. 

“Maybe by the end of the week, I’ll have no tan lines anywhere.”

“An admirable goal,” said Mycroft.

John turned her head toward the voice and smiled. “This is okay?” She knew it was, but she needed to hear Mycroft say it aloud.

“Yes,” said Mycroft. “You’re beautiful when you come.”

“And beautiful when you laugh,” added Sherlock quietly. Her hands were on John’s stomach.  “So when you come _and_ laugh…”

“It’s more than okay,” said Mycroft.  

John hummed. All she could think to say was,

“Holiday.”

* * *

“All done.”

John pushed up on her elbows. “Sherlock, do you want…?”

“To set up my lab.” She kissed John’s lips softly and then turned back toward the cottage. John watched the door slide closed and then looked back at the pool.

“I’m going to swim a bit, okay?”

“By all means,” said Mycroft

John stood, abandoning the bikini on the mat. When she reached the edge of the pool, she turned back.

“Something wrong?” asked Mycroft.

John launched herself into Mycroft’s lap, smiling. “You ever have a moment when you feel like your brain, your body, your soul, every part of you is so happy, so bloody content, that you think you might explode?”

Mycroft laughed and then shook her head, “No.”

“I do.” John kissed her. “And it’s because of you. You made this holiday happen. Thank you again.”

“You’re welcome.”

Mycroft brushed John’s cheek with her hand, and John leaned into the caress.

* * *

John was at the deep end of the pool, holding onto the edge, when she heard a splash.

Mycroft. Swimming. Like an Olympian.

She surfaced beside John.

“You’re a bloody dolphin!” cried John.

Mycroft hummed.

John looked back at the pile of clothes on the table. Then she looked at Mycroft.

“Oh, God!” She turned away. “I’m not looking, I promise!”

“John…”

John sank into the water completely and pushed off from the side. She swam lap after lap. When she could push her body no more, she returned to the steps leading out of the pool, panting, but keeping her head down.

“John…”

Mycroft was there on the steps.

John held a flat hand out as a shield as she passed. “I’m not looking…”

Mycroft grabbed John’s hand. “It’s okay. You can look.”

John turned.

Mycroft was grinning. “You ever have a moment when you feel like your brain, your body, your soul, every part of you is so happy, so bloody content, that you think you might explode?”

John laughed. “No.”

“I do. And it’s because of you. Look. I’m not afraid.”

“You’re beautiful.”

“Scars aren’t beautiful,” said Mycroft, touching the edge of a dry river bed of skin that ran from the ridge of her left shoulder to her left side, left nipple gone and much of the left breast completely disfigured.

“That’s what I thought until I met Sherlock,” said John.

Straight and jagged lines decorated both sides of Mycroft’s torso and upper arms, and one or two were not as faded as John expected. She traced a pink mark with one finger, and her eyes welled with tears.

“If something I did…”

“Sh, sh, sh.” Mycroft drew her close. “These lines are about me. They are not about you.” 

“I would do anything, Mycroft...,” murmured John.

“I would fight your entire army of demons, too.”

“Sherlock’s, too.”

“Sherlock’s, too, but it doesn’t work like that.”

John shifted and pressed her lips to the scar. “Okay?”

“Yes.”

John continued kissing down the wide ribbon of mangled skin. “Scars are about survival. That’s why they’re beautiful. They’re about strength. Sherlock taught me that.”

“I don’t believe that they’re beautiful, John.”

“It didn’t stop Sherlock. Won’t stop me either.” She rose up and kissed Mycroft’s lips. “I want to fuck you right here,” she said, nodding to the mat.

“I thought you’d never ask.”

* * *

John and Mycroft were slotted side-by-side on the mat, each with a hand slotted between their two bodies.

“You know,” whined Mycroft.

“I still like you to show me. Show me how to fuck you, Mycroft. Show me how to play with that pretty clit. Like that? Like that?” teased John.

“Yes, you minx. How about this?” Mycroft put her hand atop John’s and pushed the ridge of her knuckles back against John’s mons.

“Oh, God, yes. Here.” John rolled them so that she was on top of Mycroft. She fitted herself right over Mycroft’s hand. “You’re brilliant. We can come together.”

“Oh, John.” Mycroft’s eyes were wide.  

“Yeah, beautiful. Playing with your sweet little clit while I rut against your hand. Tell me a secret, Mycroft.” John’s voice was rough.

They were both panting and rocking together.

“Anything,” breathed Mycroft.

“You like watching? Watching me get fucked? Oh, God, please tell me your close. Please, please.”

“I’m close. I love watching you come, how is much less of a concern. John.”

“Mycroft!”

John felt Mycroft’s climax and slammed her hips into Mycroft’s hand. She bit down on Mycroft’s shoulder and let the pleasure wash over her.

The fog had not yet lifted when Mycroft said,

“John.”

“Anything, love.”

“Let me eat you out.”

John smiled. “If you are what you eat, then you are going be one happy cunt, Mycroft Holmes.”

Mycroft snorted.

“But not here, this ground is too damn hard.”

* * *

John leaned back in the lounge chair and let her legs fall on either side.

Mycroft crawled up from the end of the chair. “I may be here a while,” she said. “I’m on holiday.”

John laughed and laced her fingers in Mycroft’s hair. She raised her hips to meet Mycroft’s mouth. “Yeah, yeah, so gentle, Christ.” She looked down at Mycroft’s pale figure. “You’re going to need some sun protection, too, love. A very thorough application. Might have to amend that schedule.”

Mycroft bit the inside of John’s thigh playfully.

“Swimming…fucking, oh, oh, yeah, tongue-fucking, just like that, Christ... _holiday_.”

Mycroft hummed.

* * *

“Interesting,” said Sherlock as she closed the blinds.

“Situational disinhibition is infectious.”

* * *

“All right. I thought cards would be difficult, and it was, primarily because someone,” she looked at Sherlock, who looked away and huffed, “could not prevent herself from counting them.”

“Why is that not allowed?!” cried Sherlock.

“…and Monopoly was a bit of a disaster…”

Sherlock pointed. “Because _she_ is a corrupt banker!”  

“Oh, shut up, Sherlock!” retorted Mycroft.

“…but this is going to be great:  Cluedo!”

* * *

“It’s not actually possible for the victim to have done it,” said John.

“Of course, the victim did it!” cried Sherlock.

“John, in all fairness, it is the only possible solution,” said Mycroft evenly.

John groaned. “It’s not in the rules!”

“Then the rules are wrong!”

John got to her feet. “It’s late. I’m jetlagged. I hereby declare the first—and last—soulmate Game Night to be adjourned. Good night. I love you both.”

As the bedroom door closed, Mycroft hissed, “Well done, Sherlock.”

“Oh, shut up, Mycroft!”

* * *

John woke and checked her mobile.

Three o’clock in the morning.

“Jet lag,” she mumbled. She got up, put on a heavy, sensible dressing gown, and padded to the kitchen, where after some searching, found a mug and a box of tea bags.

“John.”

She jumped. “Christ, you’re as bad as Mycroft!”

Sherlock grunted.

“Did you sleep at all?” asked John.

Sherlock shrugged, then said softly, “It _was_ the only possible solution, John.”

John giggled and shook her head.

Sherlock pressed her lips to John’s shoulder and said, “Come see my lab.”

* * *

“Good Lord! Frogs!”

“Yes, they secret an interesting neurotoxin, but there’s more.”

They crossed into a second room. It was hot and humid and thick with ferns. The thick green curtain was dotted with dozens of flowers, splashes of gold and pink and white and gave off a heady fragrance. 

“Oh, Sherlock! Orchids.”

Sherlock stepped behind John and wound her arms around John’s waist.

“They are like you,” said John. “Beautiful. Rare. Prized.”

“Exacting in their care and maintenance,” murmured Sherlock; then she licked a tender spot on John’s neck.

John laughed. She reached a hand behind her and twined her fingers in Sherlock’s hair. She gripped a fistful of strands tight.

Sherlock groaned.

“Might be a nice retirement hobby if I didn’t think I’d have my hands full with another hothouse flower.” She brought Sherlock’s hands to the sash of her dressing gown. Sherlock made quick work of the garment, and it fell to the floor.

“Have I mentioned,” said Sherlock, easing the strap of John’s nightgown down and kissing the ridge of her shoulder, “how much I appreciate your sartorial choices of late?”

“Is that your way of suggesting I should forget my knickers more often?”

“Yes.” Sherlock’s hand slipped under the hem of John’s nightgown and found her bare mons. John stepped her legs apart, and Sherlock began to trace the edge of John’s cunt with one finger.

Again, John reached one hand behind her and began to massage Sherlock’s scalp in earnest.

“John.” Sherlock’s voice had that beautiful ragged quality. Her finger was still teasing John’s cunt.

“Don’t, um …” cautioned John.

Sherlock growled. “What is the probability that I deleted how you like to be fucked, John?”

“Sorry.” John’s eyes drifted to the flowers that surrounded them. “You know, Sherlock, I’m not the subtlest of people, but orchids are a bit…”

“Yonic?”

“Is that the word?

“Yes.”

John turned her head. “They make me want to fuck, which is also like you.”

“Nothing makes me want to fuck but you, John.”

Their mouths met in long, sloppy, wet kisses. Eventually, John pulled back and looked down at the floor and frowned.  Of course, Sherlock read her mind.

“There is a veritable harem’s worth of cushions just outside the door.”

* * *

John smiled up at the green canopy of fronds and leaves. “Like fucking in the jungle.” She turned on her side to face Sherlock. “Without mosquitos.”

They kissed and touched.

John pushed Sherlock’s dressing gown off her shoulder, and Sherlock slipped her arm out of the sleeve. John thumbed Sherlock’s nipple, watching it darken and pebble, then bent her head to take it in her mouth and suck. She nuzzled at Sherlock’s cleavage and licked at the swells of her breasts.

“So beautiful,” she murmured as she moved down Sherlock’s bare form. “Is it too much to say this is my favourite flower of the lot?” she asked as she curled her arms under Sherlock’s thighs and kissed her.

“Yes,” said Sherlock quickly. “But…”

John’s mouth was moving, making love to the very core of Sherlock, but much sooner than John anticipated, Sherlock yanked her off and up. They kissed anew, John letting Sherlock lick every trace of her own scent from John’s mouth.

Then Sherlock threw off her dressing gown entirely and rolled forward until she lay prone on the cushions. John crawled atop her and pulled her hair to one side.

“This is a turn-about, Sherlock.” John scraped Sherlock’s earlobe between her teeth, and then gently pinched a bit of skin on Sherlock’s neck. “I’m usually the one who wants to be mounted.”

John sat up, straddling Sherlock’s waist. Then she wrapped the whole of Sherlock’s mane around her fist and tugged. “Maybe you just want me to play with the reins,” she said and whipped Sherlock’s hair in mock imitation.

Sherlock groaned and pushed up, jostling John. “That’s not all I want you to play with.”

John dropped Sherlock’s hair and stared at the back of Sherlock’ head for a long moment.

Sherlock pushed up on her hands and looked over her shoulder. Her voice faltered. “That is, if you’re amenable. I’m clean…”

Ah.

“I am,” John replied and positioned herself so that she could kiss the back of Sherlock’s neck. Then she kissed, vertebra by vertebra, down Sherlock’s spine until she reached the cleft of Sherlock’s arse. She bit the centre flesh of each buttock.

Sherlock pulled her knees under her and lifted her arse. Though still awkward, John knelt and bend and spread Sherlock’s buttocks. Then she gave Sherlock’s rim a tentative lick.

Sherlock grunted.

John pressed her face against Sherlock and continued her ministrations, light licks to the outer edge of Sherlock’s hole, even as Sherlock pushed up onto her hands. Encouraged by Sherlock’s crescendo of grunts, she pushed her tongue deeper, probing gently.

Sherlock groaned a loud, hollow groan.

Then John felt Sherlock shift, spreading her knees wider. She began to sway, and John met her rhythm with shallow thrusts of her tongue.

“I like it. I like it. I like it.” John heard a slight note of surprise in Sherlock’s chant. Then she gave a sharp “Ah, ah!” and collapsed forward onto the cushions. She curled her head under to look back at John, who sat back on her heels, grinning.

Sherlock sprang, reaching her hand out to cup John’s jaw. John shirked out of her grasp.

“No. Let me…”

“John, I don’t mind…”

“Yeah, but I do. Meet you there.” She nodded to the pool area just beyond the conservatory walls.

* * *

They were huddled together on a lounge chair under a blanket.

“You used cunt-looking flowers to seduce me into tongue-fucking your arse.”

“Yes.”

They both giggled.

“This related to you going through my trunk, Sherlock? Don’t lie and say you didn’t do it.”

Sherlock snorted. “Games.”

“Yeah, and the toys?”

Sherlock said nothing.

“I thought maybe one day we could, you know, experiment.”

Sherlock looked at John with dark eyes and one eyebrow raised.

“I’d rather not call it ‘experiment,’ though. I’d rather call it ‘play.’ Play and see what we like,” said John.

“’We’?”

Ah. There was the issue.

“I got them with you in mind. It’s considered very bad form to share, but, uh, I suppose…”  

“I just ruined Game Night and used cunt-looking flowers to seduce you into providing analingus. I’m hardly in a position to criticise forms of any kind, John. It’s a date.”

“A playdate,” said John. She snuggled closer, tucking her head under Sherlock’s chin, and they remained that way until sunrise.  

* * *

**Day Two**

John clicked the control. The screen went black.

“What—?” they sputtered.

Then she stood and turned, hands on hips.

“I knew that Game Night might not work, but films? Who doesn’t like films? Who doesn’t like James Bond? But you two—especially you,” she glared at Mycroft, “can’t seem to suspend your disbelief long enough for me to enjoy a single scene! And I know: it doesn’t work like that! Nothing works like that! It’s a film. I love you, my M, my Q. The first—and last—soulmate Film Night is over, and it’s too bad because I really wanted to see how it ended, but I’m going to bed. Good night.”

The bedroom door closed.

* * *

“We must do better. Think of something!”

“ _You_ think of something!”

“No, you—. Wait, I’ve already thought of something.”

“So have I.”

“Tomorrow evening,” they said in unison.

* * *

John woke and checked her mobile.

“Four-thirty,” she said with a groan. “Getting better.”

When she emerged from the bedroom, she looked down the corridor and saw a crack of light under a door.

Sometime later, she was pushing that door open with her hip.

“I think I’m the only one in this place that sleeps. Coffee?”

“Thank you, my dear.” Mycroft met her halfway and took one steaming mug from her hand. “It has been a tedious night.”

“If it’s in consolation, I think ‘M’ has a pretty rough time of it, too. It’s tough being the idealistic, but world-weary, bureaucrat.”

Mycroft smiled. She gathered the papers on the desk into a folder and shut her computer. “Come here,” she said, swivelling her chair to the side.

“Am I to be the rogue agent in need of reining in or the femme fatale who will sacrifice everything for her cause?”

“Both? Neither?”

John put her mug on the desk and stepped back. She let the dressing gown drop.

“I don’t believe you were able to fully appreciate this last time.”

John was in the pink silk slip with black lace.

“Yes, we were rudely interrupted, weren’t we?”

John circled the desk as Mycroft pushed her chair back.

“The stockings and suspenders are welcome additions,” said Mycroft.

John hopped up on the desk and opened her legs.

“I left the knickers at home.”

“Excellent decision.” Mycroft rolled forward and pressed her lips to John’s mons. “This is, by far, the most interesting thing that has—or will—grace this desk all week, I am assured.”

“I know I should probably prefer you naked by the pool, but this,” she gestured to Mycroft’s rumpled clothes, a dress shirt with sleeves rolled and two buttons unfastened at the neck and light-weight, dark-coloured, trousers, “is when you are sexiest to me. This is you, Mycroft Holmes.”

Mycroft blushed and mumbled. “The things you say, John Watson.”

“I know how you find me sexiest, too.” John leaned forward until her face was a breath’s distance from Mycroft’s.

“Do you, now?” teased Mycroft, openly ogling John’s breasts.

John hummed. “That’s why I’m going rut myself to climax on your thigh, then sit back,” she hit with the desk with palm of her hand, “and let you eat me out right here.”

Mycroft moaned and buried her nose in the V of John’s cleavage.  

* * *

John pulled back and said, “Ugh. Sorry about your trousers.” She stared down at the pair of dark wet stains.

“I’m not.”

John climbed off of Mycroft’s leg and sat on the edge of the desk. She leaned back on her elbows. Her mug was still perched beside Mycroft’s.

“Coffee’s cold,” she said.

“Time for tea, anyway,” said Mycroft, leaning forward and eyeing John’s cunt with unabashed lust. “And I’d rather eat breakfast right here.”

John giggled and spread her legs.


	15. Epilogue: Day 3 & 4 (Drinks Night & Bed-sharing)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock and Mycroft make amends by way of Drinks Night and everyone ends up in bed together. Twice.

**Day Three**

John slid the glass door open, and she and Mycroft stepped inside.

“Oh, my!” exclaimed Mycroft.

“Are you high, Sherlock?” asked John.

“No, I’m not even drunk. Yet.” Sherlock stood behind the bar clad in a bright pink shirt decorated with yellow and purple hibiscus. “I believe it’s customary for barmen in this part of the world to display a bit of vibrancy in their wardrobe,” she said. “Here.”

John took the offered glass. “I think I know what this is:  the infamous Wilkie Collins!”

“A sweeter version for you, and,” Sherlock held out a second glass, “a decidedly bitter version for your companion.”

“Cheers,” said Mycroft through gritted teeth. She sipped and then studied the dark liquid, frowning. “Not bad, actually. Something to fall back on, Sherlock, should your wits fail you.”

Sherlock rolled her eyes and huffed.

“It’s lovely. I can’t taste the shoe polish at all,” said John. She held up her glass. “To soulmates.”

“To soulmates,” they replied.

Sherlock dipped beneath the bar, and the room was filled with the sounds of a marimba.

“Drinks, music. I’m impressed,” said John, smiling. “This might prove to be an entertaining evening.”

“And there’s more,” said Mycroft. “I acquired a game, an American version of one that Sherlock and I used to play as children.”

“Really?! Something brainy, I bet. I’m afraid I’m pants at chess,” said John.

“I think you’ll fare better than you suspect.”

* * *

 

“Wait, wait, YES!” cried John as she lifted the tiny plastic apple with a pair of tweezers. “I believe that’s $100!”

Mycroft and Sherlock groaned.

John laughed. “You should never play ‘Operation’ with a doctor! Especially after three—“

“Four,” corrected Mycroft.

“—rounds of Wilkie Collinses.”

Mycroft leaned into John and, slurring slightly, said, “I believe it is ‘ _Wilkies_ Collins,’ my dear.”

John kissed her and then raised her empty glass. “Whatever it is, I think I’d like another.”

“Coming right up!” Sherlock swooped in between them and planted a hard peck on John’s lips. She took the glass from John’s hand and flew back to the bar.

“My turn,” said Mycroft. She picked a card from the pile. “Oh, a broken heart.”

Sherlock laughed.

“I shall be successful this time,” said Mycroft. “Because I no longer am distracted by Sherlock’s garish choice of raiment.” She extended a hand, and John shifted from her seat, straddling Mycroft’s thigh, facing the game. “And because I have a good luck charm.” Mycroft bent forward, but as she picked up the tweezers, she wound her other arm around John’s waist. Her hand moved under John’s tunic until she was fondling John’s bare breast and teasing her nipple with fingers and thumb.

John grunted and turned her head. Her open mouth met Mycroft’s. She hummed loudly as they kissed.

“I attribute my lack of success to distracting instrumentation,” said Sherlock. The marimba ceased, and suddenly a woman’s soulful voice rang out,

“ _At last…my love has come along_ …”

 “Would you two like to dance?” asked John.

* * *

 “Oh God,” sighed John. She looked down at their swaying forms, Mycroft and Sherlock’s tight around hers. “You know I had a dream once, just like this, but we were—“

“On a train,” they finished.

John threw her head back and exclaimed, “How do you know bloody _everything_?!”

“You talk when you’re delirious,” said Sherlock, reaching for the lower hem of John’s tunic as she nibbled along John’s jawline.

“That’s cheating,” breathed John as she pushed Sherlock’s hands away.

“Listening,” grunted Mycroft, who was licking at John’s neck. Her hands covered John’s breasts. John reached her arms back, lifting her chest and arching into Mycroft’s touch.

Sherlock made to lift John’s tunic again, but John protested.

“I’ll lose mine when you lose yours.”

“Hear, hear,” murmured Mycroft.

Sherlock kissed John hungrily as her hands made quick work of her shirt and bra. Mycroft stripped John of her tunic and then tossed her own shirt onto the growing pile of discarded garments.

“Oh God!” cried John as their skin brushed hers. She felt the two move even closer until they seemed to surround her. “Please tell me that you’re going to fuck me right here! Please!”

The plea ought to have embarrassed John—would’ve embarrassed not-on-holiday-John—but between the alcohol and the music and the far more intoxicating sensation of their skin—Mycroft’s cool, and Sherlock’s impossibly warm—rubbing, rubbing, rubbing against hers, John was beyond shame.    

“We’re going to fuck you right here,” said Sherlock as she unwrapped John’s skirt and let it fall.

Mycroft moved down John’s body, peeling off her bikini bottom and then rising sharply. “And then, we’re going to take you to bed and fuck you some more.” She punctuated the statement by pressing her teeth into the ridge of John’s shoulder.

“Oh God, yes.”

* * *

John’s legs wrapped around Sherlock’s waist; her arms curled around Sherlock’s neck. Two sets of arms supported her. Mycroft was at John’s back, grinding against her, pushing John’s cunt into Sherlock’s crotch in at an angle and speed that John found…

“Bloody intoxicating.” She was mumbling drunkenly into Sherlock’s mouth. “Being fucked by both of you. Oh, Christ!” Mycroft slammed into her. “Yes, yes, yes!” John grabbed two fistfuls of Sherlock’s hair as she came.

Sherlock groaned. “John.”

John turned her head. “Bed?” she asked; then traced Mycroft’s smile with the tip of her tongue.

Mycroft hummed and kissed her. “Come here,” she said as pulled John to her. John released her grip on Sherlock, twisted, and curled her body around Mycroft, who carried her into the bedroom.

* * *

John growled.

“I can’t…”

The same elements that had made the earlier scene a hedonistic dream, were making the current tableau a frustrating muddle.

John couldn’t think. She was on her back on the bed, staring up into Sherlock’s cunt, Mycroft’s mouth buried between her legs, and she couldn’t think. Her thoughts were torn bits and pieces of paper scattered about the room that swirled around her, and just when she thought she had put them together, they scattered again.

She bit the inside of Sherlock’s thigh and sank her fingers deeper into the flesh of Sherlock’s buttocks.

“John.”

“John.”

It was amazing: she was always able to distinguish them. Even drunk, in the dark.

Mycroft licked John once. And waited.

John felt her warm breath, tempered and even, and understood. She let the room continue whirling and reached up to lick Sherlock.

Once. And waited.

Sherlock’s thighs quivered.

Another lick to her by Mycroft. Another lick translated by her to Sherlock.

John sighed. She could do this. In fact, she seemed made to do it: conductor of light, conductor of pleasure, although, it wouldn’t do to think too much about the implications of that…

Adorable snorting. From above and below.

“No, it wouldn’t,” they said.

“Christ, I said that last bit aloud, didn’t I?”

They hummed.

Mycroft gave John’s cunt one long, slow lick, pausing to gently wriggle her tongue around her clit.

“Oh Lord!” groaned John.

She squeezed Sherlock’s buttocks and repeated Mycroft’s gesture. Sherlock whimpered.

Then John drew her heels up the bed and hooked her legs over Mycroft’s shoulders. “More.” With time, there was with less pause between the licks until finally Mycroft’s tongue was deep in John’s cunt just as John’s tongue was in Sherlock’s, fluttering against strong wet walls as Sherlock rubbed her own clit frantically.

Then Sherlock shouted and rolled off John, crumpling into the bed.

John stroked the back of Mycroft’s head, which was pillowed on John’s thigh.

“You don’t come from it,” observed Sherlock in a groggy voice when she caught John’s eye.

John shrugged. “No matter. I like it. It’s…intimate. Plus, she _loves_ it.”

Mycroft pinched a fold of John’s skin between her teeth. “You signed the Official Secrets Act.”

“I got your Official Secret right here, gorgeous,” said John, pulling Mycroft up to her.

“No,” said Mycroft, taking John’s hand and kissing it. “I’m…good. More than good.”

John frowned, but then sighed and said quietly, “All right. But if later, you want to, you know, use me.” She kissed Mycroft’s shoulder then her neck; her voice was a low, teasing growl. “If you want to fuck yourself on me, rub that swollen clit right here,” she put Mycroft’s fingers on her hip bone, “or here,” she brought them to her shoulder, “or here,” she touched them to her lips, “be my guest. Even if I’m sleeping.”

“John.” Mycroft drew John in her arms.

“I’m your soulmate and love and friend, but I can also be, if you need it, your sweet little fucktoy. Just a thought, but if you’re good…”

“John!”

John was on her back, and Mycroft was over her, pinning John’s hands to the bed with her own.

“You little minx,” Mycroft said, grinning.

“I thought you were good,” said John coyly. She wiggled her hips until Mycroft straddled her and began to grind.

“I can be better.”

John watched with awe as Mycroft fucked herself, quickly, silently, and so-very-bloody-efficiently on her hip bone and then her shoulder. Then she looked down, her knees on either side of John’s head, and said,

“Just one kiss.”

John nodded and pressed her lips to the very core of Mycroft.

There was a loud moan.

Mycroft moved aside as John turned onto her stomach and saw Sherlock propped against the wall at the head of the bed, her hand between her legs and a pained expression on her face.

“I want to come on the scar, John,” she whined.

John laughed and reached out her hand in invitation. “Come on, my girl,” she said blithely.

Sherlock bounded towards her, and John rolled onto her right side. “Like this?”

Sherlock thrust hard against John’s arm.  “Just like that. Oh, John. It feels, it feels extraordinary. Your scar was made for fucking. Why didn’t we, before?”

“Holiday,” said John with a chuckle.

* * *

“I don’t care if you don’t sleep,” mumbled John as she crawled under the covers. “ _Pretend_ to sleep. Mm?”

There were no protests.

John kissed one and then the other as they snuggled on either side of her. “Love you. Love you.” Her eyes were heavy, and her movements slow and clumsy, but she revelled in the smoothness of the sheets and feel of their hands, which were still on her. It was too much to resist. She flopped on her back.

“Suckle me? Please?” she said in a voice that was almost, correction, was, in fact, begging. She cupped her breasts.

Mycroft and Sherlock each took a nipple and sucked. It was soft and warm and perfect. John brushed their hair with her fingers and murmured sweet phrases.

“My beautiful girls, my gorgeous soulmates, my sweet, sweet lovers, you fuck me so well, maybe just a bit more…”

And even in their half-drunk, fuck-worn states, they managed to engineer a pillow structure on which John could rut herself to completion while they sucked her nipples.

“Brilliant, brilliant, Christ Almighty, you are two brilliant, fucking…”

John came, and sleep overtook her at once.

* * *

**Day Four**

John woke. She sat up and sighed.

“To be expected, I guess.”

She was alone.

But she had only a moment to feel despondent before being distracted by the carafe of water and a glass on the table. Nothing had ever looked more inviting in her life. She gulped the cool water and finally felt as if she could face the day.

* * *

Neither Mycroft nor Sherlock had touched the stack of toast.  John chewed and chewed. No one had said anything after dispensing with perfunctory greetings and well-being inquiries.

Finally, Mycroft coughed. “I am afraid there are some work matters that require my attention today.”

“I have an experiment,” blurted Sherlock.

Obviously, they had regrets about the previous night’s adventure and wanted to distance themselves from each other and John. Well, it wouldn’t hurt if everyone went to their separate corners until John could figure out how to smooth things over.

“Quiet day by the pool. Just what the doctor ordered,” she said with forced cheer.

* * *

 A half an hour later, John looked back at the quiet cottage, huffed, and threw her novel on the ground. She left a note on the table, grabbed a set of snorkel gear, and headed for the gate on the far side of the pool.

* * *

 What was it about proximity to the ocean that made one ravenous?

John emerged from the water a couple of hours later convinced she could eat a whole shark, fins and all, but satisfied. She’d enjoyed floating amongst the colourful bits and bobs, so much so that she had forgotten all about the morning’s awkwardness.

Until she saw them by the gate. Two spots in the distance.

She walked slowly, lugging flippers and mask under one arm and shielding her eyes from the sun with her other hand.

They were just standing, shifting their weight from one foot to another, looking at the horizon, at the sand, and at her as she approached.

John watched them as she drew closer and somewhere along the way, it hit her:  they were uncomfortable, not because they were ashamed or apologetic, but because they were _frustrated_.

She laughed to herself. Oh, what silly girls!

“Were you concerned?” she asked.

“Not at all,” said Mycroft quickly. “Just wanted to advise you that lunch is prepared.”

“Wonderful. I’m starved.”

Their surreptitious glances as she rinsed off under the outdoor shower only confirmed her diagnosis.

* * *

“That was delicious, thank you. Any plans for the rest of the day? I thought about going into town.”

Mycroft wiped her mouth and placed her napkin on the table. Sherlock did not look up from her untouched plate.

Enough playing. Time to put them out of their misery.

John set her glass down. “But what I’d really like is for us to go back to bed and fuck all afternoon.”

Their surprise was momentary, but it was there, written clearly on both their faces.

She grinned. Then they returned her smile, and all three fled the table.

* * *

“…thought you had regrets…”

“…didn’t want presume…”

“No regrets. Presume,” insisted John.

They were naked on John’s bed, John and Mycroft kissing and Sherlock’s mouth on John’s neck.

“You first,” said John, pushing Mycroft onto the bed and crawling atop her. “Mine, mine, mine.”

“John.”

John looked up. “Watch and wank. I’ll make it worth the wait.” She winked, and Sherlock skittered to the head of the bed.

Then John dropped her head and studied Mycroft. “I’m going to take my time, lover, if it’s all right with you,” she cooed. She kissed Mycroft’s brow and her eyelids, her temples and her cheeks, the tip of her nose and her chin. All the while, Mycroft’s hands were moving up and down John’s back and buttocks in light strokes.  

“John.”

“Did you really have work today?” asked John as she peppered kisses along Mycroft’s jawline and nipped her earlobe.

“Yes!”

“Did you do any?”

Mycroft groaned as John began kissing her neck. “No,” she admitted.

“Start a war?” John kissed her shoulder.

Mycroft shook her head. “Nothing. I did _nothing_.” Her voice was full of incredulity. “Nothing but think of you. Us. All of us.”

John licked back and forth across the edge of Mycroft’s scar.“ Last night was new. I’m still trying to digest it myself.” She pressed her lips to the centre of the mangled flesh and then quickly raised up on arms and legs and said, “I’m going to worship these scars. Then I’m going to rut myself right here,” she drew a line with her finger across Mycroft’s chest, “until I’m on the edge. Then I want us to come together. Sound like a plan?”

Mycroft nodded.

“My soulmate,” growled John. “Mine, mine, mine…”

She licked every line on Mycroft’s body until she was trembling and pleading.

“John, please.”

“Close your eyes.”

As John straddled Mycroft, her gaze met Sherlock’s eyes, then fell to her hand, which was between her spread legs. John watched and then began to rut against Mycroft in slow circular motions, imitating the rhythm of Sherlock’s caress of her own clit.

“Oh, John,” moaned Sherlock.

“Show me, love. Like that? Like that?”

Sherlock’s hand slowed even more. “Like that,” she replied. “Just like that.”

“Yeah, you’re right. God, that’s good.” John looked down. “You ready, love?”

Mycroft hummed.  

John kissed her lips and then laid her body along the length of Mycroft’s. Their hands met and went to work, quickly bringing each other to climax, John teasing Mycroft’s clit and Mycroft pressing her knuckles into John as she rut.

“I love you, love you, love you,” chanted John as they came.  

“John.” Mycroft rolled them together, but Sherlock huffed in the background

John put one finger to Mycroft’s lips. “You have to wait. Sherlock waited.”

Mycroft nodded reluctantly and moved to the far side of the bed.

As John sat up, Sherlock crawled towards her with the grace and arrogance of a Siamese cat. The metaphor continued as she positively purred as she curled around John, accepting kisses and caresses and petting and John’s saccharine endearments as if it were her due. Then she flopped on her back and spread her legs.

John suckled her clit for a few moments, then sat back up.

Sherlock whined and raised up on her elbows. They held each other’s gaze for a long moment. Then, John smirked. 

“What do you want, Sherlock?”

Sherlock gave Mycroft one fleeting glance, then flipped on all fours and raised her arse in the air.

In an instant, John was tongue-fucking Sherlock’s arse to the sound of her whimpers and moans, and very soon, she was rocking back and forth.

After Sherlock climaxed, she crumpled on the bed and turned a mischievous smile toward John. Then she hummed and closed her eyes.

John looked at Mycroft, who was staring with a half-wrecked, half-dazed expression.

“Mycroft.”

Mycroft blinked.

After the waste of a morning due to polite egg-shell-walking, John decided to take the direct approach.

“Shower. We’ll meet you there in ten minutes. Then we’ll see if you like it as much as she does.”

And for her effort, she got the direct answer of Mycroft scampering off the bed towards the loo.

When John heard the _whoosh_ of the shower, she turned and walked towards Sherlock on her knees.

“You want a taste, gorgeous?”

“Naturally.”

John lowered herself to Sherlock’s open mouth. “Yeah, that’s right, just like that. Oh, God, Sherlock. S’good, no?”

Sherlock hummed.

They stayed like that until finally Sherlock pulled off with a loud _smack!_ and said dryly, “She'll be very cross if we keep her waiting.”

* * *

John nearly tumbled to the tile in surprise, but she gripped Mycroft’s buttocks tighter just in time and steadied herself.

Mycroft was moaning. Out loud. Out _very_ loud.

Well, well, well. Someone likes to be rimmed. A lot. At least on holiday.

John had turned off the water, but the room was still thick with steam. Mycroft was leaning against one wall, bent forward. John was behind her. Sherlock was propped up on a counter, watching through the fogged glass.

“JOHN!”

It was a very un-Mycroft noise at an even more un-Mycroft decibel level.

All in all, a very un-Mycroft orgasm.  

Mycroft stood up and pushed John until her back was against the tiled wall.

They locked eyes.

“Holiday,” mused Mycroft.

John nodded.

“My turn!” cried Sherlock and jumped from her perch.

* * *

John fucked and fucked, giving and receiving pleasure, taking them one at a time and together, bending, standing, turning and being turned, until her legs could no longer support her.

Finally, she closed her eyes and gave herself over to their care, to be washed and dried and dressed in a nightgown and put to bed like a child. When she felt their warmth on either side of her, she sighed a noise of pure contentment and fell asleep.

And when she woke in the morning to find them still there, she sighed again.


	16. Epilogue: Days 5, 6 & 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock & John play. Mycroft & John role-play. John deals with the bittersweet end of the holiday.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter includes Daddy kink. If that's not your thing, skip the first part of Day Six.

**Day Five**

“Nothing like breakfasting at one o’clock in the afternoon to remind you that you are on holiday,” said John.

“Quite,” agreed Mycroft as she set her napkin down on the table. “I’m afraid today I actually do have some work matters that require my attention. My apologies.”

John nodded. Then she stood, and walked around the table.

Mycroft pushed her chair back as John straddled her lap.

John pulled the sides of the dressing gown apart and pressed her nude torso to Mycroft’s shirted one and asked coyly, “Can I get a good-bye fuck?” 

Mycroft smiled. “By all means.”

John brought herself to climax right there. Afterwards, she pressed a chaste kiss to Mycroft’s lips and said politely, “Thank you.”

By way of reply, Mycroft leaned forward and swept her arm across the table, sending plates and cutlery flying. Then she gripped John’s lower half and hoisted her onto the edge of the table.

John’s legs instantly sprang apart, and Mycroft buried her face between them.

“Oh, God,” groaned John, falling back onto her elbows. Only then did she turn her head, and as she anticipated, Sherlock was still seated in her chair at the end of the table, dressing gown open, legs splayed, rubbing her clit furiously.

John watched Sherlock watching her until she felt Mycroft cease her ministrations.

Mycroft looked up, with a wet smile that quickly faded. She held John’s gaze for a long moment, long enough to make John’s brow crinkle in concern.

Then a belt buckle thudded against the table, and John grinned.

* * *

“I’ll see you at dinner,” said Mycroft as she finished tucking her shirt into her trousers. “Behave yourselves.”

When the door to the study closed, John turned to Sherlock. They both spoke at once:

“Playdate.”

* * *

Sherlock and John lay side-by-side on the bed, not touching, staring at the ceiling.

“Vanilla sex.”

“John.”

“You have a vanilla sex kink, Sherlock. Not completely, of course, because, you know, there’s your sister, but…”

“John.”

“It’s fine, Sherlock. Surprising, but fine. The restraints bored you. The blindfold was…”

“Pointless, given my keen sense of hearing and smell.”

“…the flogger…”

“Hurt!”

“…the vibrator…”

“Is only interesting in theory, unfortunately.”

“…the anal beads…”

“Are so far inferior to your tongue as to be absurd!”

“…the furry handcuffs made you itch…the feather teaser made you sneeze…and the strap-on,” John looked down at the silicone cock protruding from the pelvic harness, “made us both laugh.”

Sherlock’s lips twitched. “You have a very fine prick, John.”

Their eyes met, and the two erupted into a fit of schoolgirl giggles.

“Your laughter is my kink, John.”

 _Knock, knock_!

The door cracked open.

Mycroft stared at John with an odd expression, then announced in a matronly voice,

“If you’re quite done, dinner is ready.”

The door closed.

Sherlock cried, “Yes, Mummy!” and John burst into laughter anew.

* * *

**Day Six**

“What, my dear?”

“You mean you can’t deduce it?”

“Despite evidence to the contrary, I’m not a mind reader.”

They were clinging to the side of the deep end of the pool. Mycroft wrapped one arm around John’s waist, and John put her lips to Mycroft’s ear.

It was a risk, but there would be no better opportunity than this one to test her hypothesis. 

“I was just thinking…”

“Yes?”

“How much I love my Daddy,” she whispered.

And waited. 

Mycroft momentarily lost her grip on the side of the pool; when she recovered it, she replied in a low, husky voice,

“And Daddy was just thinking how much he’d love to give his precious girl a bath.”

* * *

“Bubbles!” cried John, blowing foam. She sat in an enormous bathtub overflowing with soapy suds.

“Come here and let Daddy wash you properly.” Mycroft was in rolled shirt sleeves and trousers, leaning over the side of the tub. John shifted and Mycroft began circling her chest and shoulders with a soft sponge.

“Daddy loves your pretty pink buds.”

“These?” asked John, touching her nipples.

Mycroft hummed and brushed foam from John’s nipples. “There. Much better. Now Daddy can see them. So pretty. Can he have a little taste?”

John leaned forward, giggling. “Of course.”

Mycroft sucked one bud and then the other. “Let Daddy watch you play with them until they get nice and pink.”

John sat back and did as instructed.

Mycroft ogled her and cooed her appreciation.  “Daddy’s precious little girl, playing with her pretty buds. Oh, let me have another taste.”

John leaned forward again.  This went on and on until she stood.

“Oh, I see another pretty bud. An even sweeter one!” cried Mycroft.

“Where?” asked John, looking down.

“Sit on the edge. Now open your legs. Wider. Okay. Now spread those pretty pussy lips. There it is! There’s my baby girl’s sweet bud. Daddy needs a taste of that one, too!”

Mycroft moved around the tub. John turned and Mycroft bent to kiss her clit.

“Oh, Daddy!”

“Come and put that sweet little bud on Daddy’s leg, and Daddy will bounce you until you feel very good!”

Mycroft sat on the edge of the tub and John rut against her thigh. “I love my Daddy,” she sang as she arched her back and toyed with her nipples.

“Daddy’s precious girl, so pretty, so sweet.”

“It feels so good, Daddy! Oh, Daddy!”

John clung to Mycroft as she came. Then Mycroft pushed John’s wet hair from her face.

“Come, let’s dry you off.”

* * *

Mycroft brought John off again with the terrycloth towel between her legs.

“Is it naptime?” whined John.

“Yes,” said Mycroft. “Let me get your nightgown and knickers.”

* * *

“No,” said John, pouting. She reached her arms up, and Mycroft pulled the short, thin-strapped night over her head.

“Good girls wear knickers,” said Mycroft.

“You’re going to take a nap with me, Daddy?”

“Of course, sweetheart. Daddy loves taking naps with his baby girl.”

“If I don’t have knickers, then you can play with my bud while I’m napping. Please!”

Mycroft stifled a groan. Then she sighed. “Just this once, my girl.”

“Yea! Thank you, Daddy!” John peppered kisses all over Mycroft’s face.

“Give Daddy a good nap kiss.”

John turned her head and kissed Mycroft’s lips. “I love you, Daddy.”

They were spooned together on Mycroft’s bed, under the covers. John closed her eyes and immediately felt Mycroft’s hand, fondling her left breast and gently pinching the nipple.

“Daddy!”

“These buds are so sweet, baby girl. Daddy can’t resist.” Mycroft’s hand moved to the right breast.

John hummed. “You make me feel so good, Daddy.” She raised the hem of the nightgown and wiggled.

"Daddy loves your sweet little bottom, too."

"No spankings, Daddy!"

"No, you've been Daddy's good girl all week. No spankings."

John brought Mycroft’s hand between her legs. “Play with this one, too, Daddy.”

“Of course, baby girl. Just give Daddy a second.”

Mycroft disappeared. John heard clothes rustling. When Mycroft returned, John felt Mycroft’s bare chest pressed to her back. John saw her shirt still hung on her arms. Mycroft reached around and cupped John’s mons and began to rock into her.

“You make Daddy feel so good, baby girl. My special girl.” Mycroft licked John’s neck. “Daddy’s perfect little girl.”

John recognised the tiny tremor of Mycroft’s orgasm. Then she guided one finger of Mycroft’s hand inside her.

“Am I wet, Daddy?”

Mycroft groaned softly and fingered John’s cunt. “So wet, baby girl.” She inserted another finger. “How’s that?”

“Good,” said John. Mycroft began to thrust her fingers in and out.

“Daddy, I had a dream.”

“Tell Daddy your dream, princess.”

“I dreamed that I was licking a big lolly! It was so much fun!”

Mycroft scraped her teeth along John’s skin. “Daddy’s got a lolly you can lick, sweetheart.”

“Oh, can I, please?”

“Then Daddy’s going to put it right here,” Mycroft curled her finger inside John, “and it’s going to be so sweet. Daddy’s sweet lolly inside his sweet baby girl.”

* * *

John never took her eyes from Mycroft’s face.

Mycroft Holmes was babbling and had been babbling since John had first knelt between her legs and taken the head of the silicone prick in her mouth.

“Oh, baby girl, so good, so sweet, yeah, suck it a little more, just like that, oh God, you’re so good to Daddy, so good, lick it, yeah, up and down, just like that, oh, princess…”

John watched Mycroft slip a hand beneath the harness and squeeze her eyes tight. Then she heaved a loud sigh.

But John wasn’t done yet.

“It’s so big, Daddy. Will your lolly fit in my tiny pussy?”

Mycroft stared at her with lust-crazed eyes and groaned and said,

“Daddy’ll slick it up so good, it’ll slide right in, princess.”

* * *

Mycroft was behind John, thrusting.  “Daddy’s girl, so pretty, so perfect, taking his lolly like that.”

John had lost count of how many times Mycroft had climaxed since they’d begun, but when she finally unhooked the harness and let it and the prick fall to the floor, she looked less like Mycroft Holmes than John had ever seen: weary, broken, dull. Her final words were soft and clear, however, and sounded very much like an oath.

“Anything you want, John. Yours.”

* * *

“Please, John,” they begged.

The three were snuggled under a large blanket on the sofa. John had a hand one hand on Sherlock’s cunt and the other hand on Mycroft’s. She had been slowly teasing them for some time.    

“No,” she said. “I always thought that orgasm denial was partly cruel, partly ridiculous, but it turns out it’s the only way that the three of us can watch a film together in peace. You’re not coming until the end and if you touch yourselves, I’ll go to bed. Alone. Horrible way to spend the final night of our holiday, but there you go. Only a few more minutes. Then you’ll both come and you can do whatever you want with me.”

They whimpered.

* * *

John looked up at Mycroft.

“Yes.”

“You don’t even know what I’m going to ask!”

“Doesn’t matter. The answer is yes.”

John sighed. She was stretched between them on the sofa, her head pillowed on Mycroft’s thigh, her feet in Sherlock’s lap. Sherlock was fanning John's newly-painted toenails.

“I am asking you to be the strong one, Mycroft. The idea of going back home isn’t a happy one. The foolish part of me wants to stay here, to hide from real life in this magical, surreal place. I might be, well, childish, petulant about leaving tomorrow.”

“Oh, I’m sorry, I thought we’d met before. My name is Mycroft Holmes, have you met my sister, Sherlock?”

Sherlock lobbed a pillow at Mycroft’s head, which Mycroft deftly deflected.

John laughed; then she frowned. “Mycroft…”

“I understand.” She squeezed John’s hand.

John smiled. Then she looked at Sherlock and wiggled her toes. “Dry?”

Sherlock nodded.

“Then let’s go to the pool.”

* * *

 

They fucked in the water and on the steps and on the hard ground and atop imaginative arrangements of lounge chairs.  They watched each other masturbate. They formed shifting domino chains of tongues in cunts and arses. They fed each other fruit and other delicacies by hand and ate off each other’s bodies. They whispered professions of love and shouted coarse vulgarities. They danced. They swam. They toyed and teased and begged and fucked some more.

They watched the sunrise in a nest of cushions and blankets on the beach.

And just before they rose to return to the cottage, Sherlock traced a fingertip along John’s breast and said, “You achieved your goal, John. No tan lines anywhere.”

* * *

**Day Seven**

“No.”

“One more day. You could make it happen. A call. A text even!”

“Pack.”

“Please, Mycroft. We could—“

“John, stop. It’s been a wonderful holiday, but it’s over. We’re going home. Twenty minutes. Don’t look like that. John—“

“Get your hands off me!”

* * *

John unfastened her seat belt.

“Come.”

Sherlock leapt to her feet.

* * *

“John.”

“If you say one word other than my name, you’re going to wish you had shot me.”

_WHAM!_

John launched herself at Sherlock so hard that Sherlock’s head flew back into the lavatory mirror, shattering it. Shards rained around them as John’s lips claimed Sherlock’s in a punishing kiss. She ripped Sherlock’s blouse open, scattering buttons about the space, which was barley large enough for one person, much less two.

John shoved her hands into Sherlock’s bra, yanking the fabric aside, pinning Sherlock’s breasts on display. She leaned back and said in a low growl,

“Christ, you’ve got gorgeous tits.”

She bit them. 

Bit Sherlock’s nipples, her collar bone, her neck, chin, and bottom lip. Angry nips meant to sting followed by rough kneading of soft flesh and hard pinches.

Sherlock moaned and slumped against the tiny counter.

“This gorgeous, too?” John thrust a hand down Sherlock’s trousers. “Christ, that’s a wet cunt.” She began rubbing Sherlock fast and hard, and as she felt the physical tension in Sherlock build, her own mental frustration grew. “FUCK!” she yelled and jerked Sherlock’s head back by the hair.

“John!”

John’s rubbing hand kept up its brutal pace through Sherlock’s orgasm.

“I bet a gorgeous cunt like that’s got another one in it. Come on! Come for me, baby!”

“John!”

John pulled Sherlock upright before she crumpled completely and threw her against the wall. There was a loud bang as something—John wasn’t sure what—fell. 

John dropped to her knees and wrenched Sherlock’s trousers open. She pressed her face to the tight crease of fabric and skin and lapped greedily.

“Love eating your pussy. Oh, yeah, give it to me. Give me that raw, wet pussy.”

“John!”

John yanked Sherlock’s trousers and knickers farther down her thighs.

“Oh, that clit. That pretty little clit. Come on, baby. Let me suck it.”

John covered Sherlock’s clit with her lips and sucked hard.

Sherlock shrieked. Her arm flailed. More loud bangs. More things falling.

John stood abruptly and flipped Sherlock, pressing her face to the wall. She squat behind her and sank her teeth into the centre of each buttock, saying,

“Last one, gorgeous. That arse needs fucking, doesn’t? You better say my name if you want that arse fucked. I’ll stop. I swear to God I’ll stop if you don’t…”

John’s tongue was deep in Sherlock’s arse when the scream made her stop.

“JOHN!”

John stopped. She stood slowly. And stared in horror.

Sherlock, bloody and dishevelled.

The lavatory, wrecked.

It was a crime scene.

Sherlock turned and put a trembling finger to John’s lips. “Don’t say it. I am not sorry. Your laughter and _this_ are my kinks.”

John bolted. She threw herself into Mycroft’s open arms and hid her face in the curve of Mycroft’s neck.

“I’m going mad,” she said in a hoarse whisper.

“No, you’re not.” Mycroft rubbed her back. “I’m sure they taught you in the army:  re-entry is always difficult. And messy.”

“How can you be so detached?”

Mycroft sighed. “It is taking every ounce of my substantial reserve not to drop my trousers right here and beg you to tongue-fuck my arse.”

“Do it.”

“No.”

“So we just go back to the way things were?”

“That’s probably is oversimplification, but, yes.”

John burrowed deeper into Mycroft’s embrace and fell silent.

* * *

 

John was still clinging to Mycroft when Sherlock reappeared, looking every bit the neatly-groomed, well-dressed world’s only consulting detective.

In the Belstaff.

John stared at the black wool for a long time. Then she stood, grabbed her bag, and headed for the lavatory.

* * *

John measured every step of the return to her seat. Her jumper and jeans felt oddly heavy on her body.

“I suppose the weather’s been ghastly,” she said in an even voice.

“Indeed, it has,” said Mycroft, with a polite smile. Sherlock said nothing, her attention fixed to her mobile.

John nodded and took a deep breath. Then she picked up her novel, which lay on the seat beside her. A folded sheet of paper fluttered to the floor.

“Ah,” she said, bending to retrieve it. “My souvenir. The schedule. Brilliant, that. I don’t know how we would’ve managed without it.”

Mycroft and Sherlock snorted. Identically. Adorably.

John smiled. Then she opened the novel and, without looking up, scratched the left side of her chest and said, “I love you.”

“I love you too,” they replied.


	17. Epilogue No. 2: Six Months Later (Part 1 of 2)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's six months after the soulmates' island holiday. PWP. 
> 
> Mentions of a serial killer, violence against women, and crime scene gore. Some begging and biting.
> 
> **To celebrate Poly Shipping Day (November 1) and the anniversary of the posting of the first chapter of this fic. Thank you to all my gentle readers!**

“Yeah, it’s a gruesome one,” said Donovan. “Was a little queasy myself when I first saw her.”

John took the bottle of water offered with a grunt of thanks.

She was not queasy. She was, however, overwhelmed.

She did the math. Six months.

It had been six months since John had seen her two soulmates side by side; the last time had been on the tarmac at the end of their island holiday. Snow was covering the ground then; today the summer sun was baking a mutilated corpse, rendering the crime scene stench even fouler than usual.

“John.”

“Get this bastard, Sherlock. What he did to her.”

After six months of what passed for domestic bliss at 221B, Sherlock knew John’s steely tone well enough to nod and disappear without further inquiry.

John took another swig of water.

“Doctor Watson.”

“Ms. Holmes.”

With Mycroft, it had been six months of stolen moments: a few texts, a few phone calls, a couple of proper dates and a couple of very improper ones, but, work, travel, cases, and shifts at the surgery had put regular contact out of bounds.

Was it possible to miss someone who was standing right in front of you?

“Doctor, I would like to extend to you a dinner invitation at my home—at the conclusion of the case, of course.”

John smiled. “I’d like that.”

* * *

“The case isn’t technically over.”

“Laboratory tests will confirm what Sherlock has already deduced.”

John scraped her plate with her fork and glanced at the remnants of the meal scattered about them. “I’ve made quite a dent in the feast, no?”

“You’ve been surviving on horrid coffee and snacks machine fare for the past seven days.”

“True.” John licked the fork clean and set it on the plate. She looked about the room. “New paint?”

“Yes, I’ve had a few renovations done since your last visit. Perhaps a tour?”

“Why not? But I warn you, I have no taste in that area. My idea of stylish home decorating is walls with no bullet holes.”

“Then I believe we share an aesthetic. Shall we?”

* * *

“Most of the attention has been paid to the guest wing, this suite in particular.”

Mycroft opened the door.

John gasped.

The far wall had been painted with subtle shifts of colour, blue at the floor morphing into yellow, then pink, then blue again.

John recognised the pattern at once.

“The island sunrise. Our last morning.”

On the beach. Naked. Together. Spent. Savouring the final moments of their erotic dream holiday.

“Apologies, John.”

A tremor ran through John as it always did when Mycroft finally, _finally_ relinquished the formality of titles.

“Apologies for what? This is amazing!”

“For not anticipating your needs.”

“Mycroft, _I’m_ not even certain what I need most of the time.”

“Nevertheless, I spend a good deal of time in the professional realm foreseeing what is required, to not do so in the personal one, is tantamount to gross neglect.”

Some moments were for battling demons. Not this one.

John kissed Mycroft. “This room more than repays your debt to the soulmate society,” she said, then her eyes travelled to the bed.

Or beds, rather.

She had never seen an arrangement quite like this one: ostensibly a pair of bunk beds, but with the bottom mattress being more than twice the size of the top.

“Is that for you and me and, uh, Sherlock?” she asked incredulously.

“Is someone speaking of the devil?” asked a voice from the hall.

“Look, Sherlock!” cried John. “Isn’t it marvelous?”

Sherlock entered gave the room an appraising glance, then offered a begrudging, “Not bad.”

“High praise from someone who wallpapers with a Browning,” replied Mycroft.

Sensing a squabble in the air, John interjected quickly. “Did the lab results come back?”

“No,” said Sherlock. “But I was tired of waiting so I went to see him.”

“Without me?!”

“Very rash, Sherlock,” added Mycroft in a reproving tone.

Sherlock scowled at Mycroft then turned back to John and broke into a wide grin.

“And he confessed.”

John’s mouth fell open; her eyes went round. “You got him!”

“ _We_ got him,” corrected Sherlock.

“Yeah!” cried John. She threw herself in Sherlock’s arms. Sherlock spun her in a circle.

“Yes, my brilliant girl! Yes, yes, yes!” John exclaimed. “Christ, I love you, Sherlock.”

“Well done, both of you,” said Mycroft.

John kissed Sherlock soundly on the lips, then turned and kissed Mycroft equally soundly. “You two,” she said, grinning and looking back and forth, “are the most extraordinary….”

But as at the crime scene, John was suddenly overcome with the _nearness_ of them. She swallowed and shook her head in a vain attempt to dispel welling tears. She tried to focus on the conch shell decorating the bedside table, but her vision blurred.

“I need you so much,” she confessed in a tiny voice as Sherlock and Mycroft closed around her.

“We’re here,” said Sherlock.

“But is there time?”

It was a whine. John winced.

“Time will be made,” said Mycroft in her most omniscient tone.

“Obviously,” Sherlock added cheekily.

John breathed a long, loud sigh of relief. Then it seemed the most natural thing in the world to raise her arms over her head and allow Mycroft and Sherlock to peel off her vest. The two worked together until John was standing between them in only bra and pants. She did a quick calculation, then took a deep breath and looked at Sherlock.

“On you, yeah?”

Sherlock nodded, then stepped backwards until she reached the wall. She unzipped, then wiggled out of her pencil skirt. At once, John straddled her thigh, and Mycroft slotted behind John.

They were together, once again. A set of three.

John sighed again.

Then two mouths, two sinfully precise instruments, were on John’s neck, licking and kissing, guided by the massive intellects normally reserved for solving unsolvable crimes and whatever the fuck Mycroft did all day with the sole objective of driving John half-mad with lust.

Because by now they knew John, knew her mind and her body, knew when to kiss her lightly, almost reverently, like she was a porcelain doll and when to breathe hot breath on freshly-licked skin and when scrape teeth across the ridge of her shoulder.

When to kiss their names over her heart.

“Missed you. I didn’t even know how much until today,” mumbled John. She turned her head from one side to the other, kissing whatever part of them was within reach, cheek, ear lobe, lock of wayward hair. She began to rut against Sherlock’s leg. With Mycroft at her back, she was pressed tightly between them.

Exactly where she wanted to be.

But her pleasure was building far too fast. She let go of Mycroft and grabbed onto Sherlock with two hands.

“Fuck! I can’t believe it…I might actually…like, _now_ …Christ Almighty…I haven’t come this quick in…”

“Six months,” they answered.

“FUCK!”

John ground her hips mercilessly into Sherlock as she came.

“John.”

And John _was_ half-mad with lust, but not mad as to fail to hear, or heed, the request in Sherlock’s whisper; she sank her teeth into the neck provided.

Sherlock groaned just as John twisted in her arms and, like a child reaching from mother to father, went to Mycroft.

Mycroft lifted John off the ground. John suspected that of her two soulmates, she was the stronger physically. John locked her legs around Mycroft’s waist and they moved as one until John’s back was against the spot on the wall recently vacated by Sherlock.

John put her mouth to Mycroft’s ear. “Another.”

John’s pleasure had crested, but not ebbed. She was still flush, primed, waiting for, searching for the slightest bit of friction, the single spark.

And it terrified her.

Sherlock operated in world of reckless invincibility, but Mycroft would understand, would know this fear, fear of one’s own body.

“I’ve got you,” whispered Mycroft, then she ground her hips into the core of John in very slow and very purposeful movements.

John clung to Mycroft, every muscle clenched, as the second orgasm hit.

“FUCK!”

It was a whispered scream.

“One more?” asked Mycroft gently.

John bit her lip, then nodded. She brought her forehead to Mycroft’s and tried to smile. “Just one.” It was not a statement; it was a plea. She was asking Mycroft to help her make it _just_ one.

Mycroft also tried to smile. “A tiny flutter,” she agreed with feigned nonchalance—Mycroft Holmes was never truly nonchalant. “No more.”

John pinched her eyes shut at the third wave. “Fuck, Mycroft, fuck, fuck,” she choked.

“I’ve got you,” repeated Mycroft. She held John in an embrace so tight as to be painful, which was, in fact, a bit of the point. It helped to slow the reverberations in John’s body and bring her back to herself. She sniffed and Mycroft slowly released her. 

They circled each other until their positions were reversed. Then John reached out and slid Mycroft’s tie between two fingers. She shook her head.

“Christ, you’ve just taken me apart and put me back together again without a crease or wrinkle. What do _you_ need?”

No one in the room missed the flicker of Mycroft’s eyes to the space above and beyond John’s shoulder.

“Well, in case anyone’s curious, I need the loo!” announced Sherlock.

A door closed behind John. Then there was the sound of running water and the beginning of an off-key rendition of ‘O Sole Mio.’

John laughed, then her smile faded. “So?”

Mycroft’s gaze travelled to the damp crotch of John’s pants. “You know what I want, but…” She swallowed and looked away.

John waited. She would not presume to know what was in Mycroft’s mind, and she would not rush her.

Mycroft exhaled and moved closer to John. She spoke very quietly. “I would be very much obliged if you would allow me to apologise properly, which might include,” there was another long pause; the words that followed were even softer, “begging for what I do not deserve.”

Their eyes met.

“Fine,” said John. “But no wrinkling that handsome tie on my conscience.”

Mycroft’s shoulders relaxed; her pupils blew black, and John was reminded of just how erotic it was to be understood.

Without taking her eyes from John’s, Mycroft yanked off the tie and threw it on the bed.

John pointed to the centre of the room. “Hands and knees.”

Mycroft lowered herself to the floor.

John sat on the side of the bed. “Look at me.”

Mycroft lifted her head.

“With every apology, you can come one step closer.”

Mycroft nodded.

John took a deep breath.

“I nearly fainted at the crime scene last week.”

The words cracked like a whip. Mycroft grimaced as if she’d been struck.

“I’m sorry.”

“You’re supposed to be the smart one; you’re supposed to know me better than I know myself.”

“I’m sorry.”

“You have one name on your chest. I’ve two. Or have you forgot? It’s been a while.”

“I’m sorry.”                                                                                                                   

“Work and work and flying around the world for work. Is keeping the bloody universe spinning like a top so important that you can’t spare the time for a cuppa and proper shag?”

They both knew what ‘proper’ meant.

“I’m sorry.”

John spread her legs as Mycroft neared. That was enough flogging. She looked down. Her tone softened.

“I’ve made a mess of myself, Mycroft, thrice over. I need to be cleaned.”

Mycroft kissed John’s inner thigh. “Please, John.”

“I’m so dirty, Mycroft.”                             

“Let me clean you, my dear. Please.” Mycroft was nuzzling John’s crotch, noisily breathing in the scent of her.

“Lick,” ordered John.

Mycroft licked the front of John’s pants.

John began to pet her head and coo, “Good girl, good girl.” Then she felt Mycroft’s tongue brush her pubic hair. “No!” she admonished. She pushed Mycroft’s head away, closed her legs, turned to the side.

“Please, John.” Mycroft kissed the back of John’s thigh. “I’m sorry.” She nosed beneath white cotton and kept pressing kisses to John’s skin. “Let me see you, clean you, take care of you as I’m meant.”

John could no longer pretend.

She slipped her pants off and spread her legs.

“Fuck, you’re hungry!”

John thought of the discarded dishes on the dining room. She was guest and banquet here, her legs hooked over Mycroft’s shoulders, her cunt being plundered. Amidst the pleasure, a wave of tenderness washed over her. She rubbed her hands up and down Mycroft’s forearms.

“The slate’s wiped clean, Mycroft. All’s forgiven.”

Mycroft stopped her ministrations and sighed.

John felt one of Mycroft’s arms slip from under her. She heard a rustling of fabric. She stroked Mycroft’s hair and waited. The only sign that anything had happened was a lick to the inside of her knee.

“Thank you,” whispered Mycroft.

John pulled her bra over her head, and when it cleared her eyes, she saw Sherlock leaning against the door to the toilet in a sheer blouse unbuttoned to reveal a pale pink bra and matching knickers.

John smiled. “Pretty.” Then she glanced back Sherlock’s crumpled skirt on the floor and frowned.

“You weren’t wearing a skirt when I left you. You went home and changed.”

“If you’ll excuse me for just a moment,” said Mycroft, turning away from John as she rose. She brushed past Sherlock without a word.

John marched towards Sherlock until they stood nose to nose. “Why would you change your clothes to meet a serial killer?”

Sherlock shrugged. “There are many possible reasons. Disguise. Bait.”

“Bait. Bait! Bait a man who slaughters women for fun! You are so bloody reckless.”

Sherlock’s reply was a defiant stare.

John sniffed loudly. She studied her bare feet, and Sherlock’s, and nodded a couple of times. Then she said through clenched teeth,

“If he ever gets out…”

“He won’t.”

“You are not bulletproof, Sherlock!

Once again, John was faced with a silent, defiant stare.

She growled and hoisted Sherlock over her shoulder. Then she marched back to the bed and dropped her bodily onto the larger bed. Sherlock bounced.

“I should have been there,” said John.

“If you’d been in the room, he wouldn’t have confessed.” Sherlock’s grey eyes flashed angrily and John was, as ever, reminded of lightning and grey thunder clouds.

“I could’ve been near, just in case.”

Sherlock curled onto her knees. “Not near enough to do any good, and you’d never let me…”

John hauled Sherlock onto her stomach. Then she pressed her hips to Sherlock’s, pinning her to the bed.

“Run off to meet a serial killer looking like a bit of candy floss? You’re fucking right, I wouldn’t!” John tore Sherlock’s blouse from her arms and tossed it to the floor. “Well, he certainly got a good look at the goods, didn’t he? There’s nothing to this bit of High Street silk.”

“If you must know, I bought this blouse online.”

John suppressed the urge to throttle her.

“ _THAT IS NOT THE BLOODY POINT, AND YOU KNOW IT!_ ”

John took a long ragged breath and bit her lip. She would not do this.

She began tracing the edge of Sherlock’s bra with one finger. She curled one finger under the band and let it snap against Sherlock’s skin.

Sherlock turned her head. “You said, ‘Get the bastard, Sherlock.’ Well, I _got_ him. Who the hell cares how?”

Oh, that was it.

John quickly unhooked Sherlock’s bra and pulled the two sides apart. She gave a cursory rub to the faint red marks on Sherlock’s exposed skin. Then she plastered her chest to Sherlock’s back and licked a stripe up the side of Sherlock’s neck.

_“I. FUCKING. CARE.”_

John punctuated every word with a violent thrust of her hips against Sherlock. Then she sat up, curled Sherlock’s dark hair around her fist and yanked Sherlock’s head back. Sherlock’s eyelashes fluttered; her eyes were two pools of mercury.

John hissed against her cheek. “All I do is care because one of us has to, and you seem bloody well content to get yourself gruesomely murdered!” She yanked again.

It was not Sherlock’s wince, but rather her whimper that pierced John’s anger and brought her back to herself. She began to kiss and lick Sherlock’s neck and shoulders, tenderly, gently, loving. “You’re so precious, my beautiful girl, and so bloody reckless,” she murmured. She let go of Sherlock’s hair and eased Sherlock’s bra off her arms.

Sherlock’s voice was quiet, but insistent. “You said ‘get him.’”

And at that, the frayed and feeble reins of John’s rage snapped.

“I did _not_ say to put yourself at the top of a depraved monster’s wank list!” she roared. She pinned Sherlock’s arms to the bed and leaned down to bite Sherlock’s neck.

“It was a calculate risk!” groaned Sherlock.

But John was too far gone to turn back. She bit and bit and bit, left, right, down Sherlock’s back, ripping Sherlock’s knickers off to sink her teeth into the round flesh of her buttocks over and over again.

Then she rose up Sherlock’s body and straddled her, grinding into her hard.

“There. You’re marked. I’m going to smear my come all over you, like the little wank-fodder fuck-toy you want to be, then I’m going to turn you over and maybe, just maybe, let you come. Fuck, fuck, fuck, Sherlock.”

John’s body was so raw that when she came it was a mixture of pleasure and pain, but she dragged her wet mons all over Sherlock’s abused skin.

Then John flipped her.

Sherlock’s eyes were pinched shut, but when she opened them, her expression was one of pure lust. “John,” she whimpered.

Sherlock’s hands fell. John pushed them away and thrust two fingers in her cunt. “Like this?”

Sherlock nodded.

John quickly removed her fingers.

“No!” cried Sherlock softly. Then John shoved her fingers in Sherlock’s mouth.

“Suck on yourself, if you’re so keen,” growled John.

Sherlock suckled John’s fingers as John bit her neck and breasts. “More,” she begged when John removed them as she travelled southward down Sherlock’s body.

“You’re in no position to be making demands.”

John bit the inside of Sherlock’s thighs. Then she gave Sherlock’s cunt a light lick.

“John!”

“Not good to be teased, is it? I don’t think Mister Prick-Monster likes it either.” John licked Sherlock’s folds again then pressed her lips to Sherlock’s swollen clit. “You want it sweet, my beautiful girl? You want me to kiss this clit ‘til it quivers, lick your pretty cunt ‘til you come all over my face.”

“Yes, yes, yes, John.”

“Well, too bad,” growled John. At once, she shot up Sherlock’s body and sank three fingers into Sherlock’s cunt. She thrust roughly, deeply, pumping hard and quick.

“FUCK!” exclaimed Sherlock, jerking off the bed.

“Yeah, girls who run off and try to get themselves killed get fucked like the naughty tarts they are,” John bit Sherlock’s bottom lip, "get a very rough fucking.”

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” Sherlock chanted as her body clenched.

John slowed, but did not stop, her pumping.

“Come on, precious, if I’ve got three, you’ve probably got a dozen in you.” She moved back down Sherlock’s body, pushing wiry hair aside to cover Sherlock’s clit with her mouth while her fingers continued to work Sherlock’s cunt.

Sherlock came again. And again.

* * *

John studied plane of Sherlock’s back. She shook her head. “Tell me the truth.”

“I went to see him. He confessed. That’s the truth.”

“The whole truth. You didn’t wear that bra. I know all your bras, Sherlock. If you’d been wearing that one a long time, the marks would have been darker. That lace cuts.”

John heard the smile in Sherlock’s voice. “’Captain Basil’ went to see him. Same result. He confessed.”

“You went in disguise?”

“Naturally.”

“So this was all for a different purpose, wasn’t it?”

Sherlock looked over her shoulder and grinned.

“Bloody hell, Sherlock. If you want angry sex, just ask for it.”

“I do! But you never get angry enough when you pretend. Not like, for example, the time I used your kettle to….”

John glared at her. “You manipulated me.”

“Sorry?”

“You’re not sorry.”

“Not a bit. I got a serial killer and amazing ‘angry John’ sex,” said Sherlock, turning back with a contented sigh.

John sighed, too. “Will you sleep here tonight?”

Sherlock huffed. “Where else would I be?” she said indignantly.

John smiled.

The door to the toilet opened. “Well, since that’s decided, there are nightclothes, dressing gowns, etcetera, in the wardrobe.”

“Thank you, Mycroft,” said John. “I think I’ll take my turn.” She gestured to the toilet. “Then we can fight about sleeping arrangements.”

“I don’t believe Mycroft’s shown you the unique feature of this ensemble,” said Sherlock. “I assume there’s a remote control.”

Mycroft opened the drawer to the bedside table and handed a device to Sherlock.

There was a soft whir, and the top bed descended slowly.

John laughed. “Why on earth would you give Sherlock the power to crush you? Or me, for that matter.”

“Three Continents, John, really?” teased Sherlock. “If I’m not mistaken, and let’s face it, when’s the last time that happened, it’s to facilitate certain configurations.”

The penny dropped.

So did John’s mouth.

“So one of you can…while I…”

“And vice versa. It facilitates an imaginative range of positions with less wear and tear on the body,” said Mycroft. “Time marches on, you know.”

“Holy fuck!” John blinked. “Okay, loo, and then, uh, yeah, maybe we’ll, uh…” She hurried to the door.

Sherlock and Mycroft continued talking.

“She hasn’t seen it yet, has she?”

“No.”

_“HOLY FUCK!”_


	18. Epilogue No. 2: Six Months Later (Part 2 of 2)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> PWP.

“Mycroft!” John launched herself onto the bed. “The bath!” she squealed.

“Is quite spacious,” said Mycroft. Her tone was dry, but there was a twinkle of pride in her eyes and a tiny twitch of a smile on her lips.

“It’s enormous! The shower, the tub. I almost did not want to use it because it was so pretty.”

“It’s meant to be used, John.”

“Oh I used it, but, holy fuck!” She turned to Sherlock. “It’s bigger than the flat!”

“Comfortable,” conceded Sherlock, who was stretched out on the top bed.

“And stocked and supplied,” said John, brushing the front of her bathrobe. “Thank you.”

Mycroft glanced up at Sherlock, then looked back at John. “There is a drawer of,” she paused, “ _accoutrement_ , should anyone wish to indulge.”

John raised an eyebrow. “Is there now?” Her lust swelled and she turned on her knees, offering Mycroft her neck. Mycroft moved behind John and slipped her arms around John’s waist. She untied the sash of the bathrobe and pushed it slightly off John’s shoulders.

Then she licked.

“The shower, Mycroft,” murmured John.

Mycroft hummed and continued licking. “Tub, too.”

John gasped. “We could, uh, bathe together?” She looked up, directing her question to Sherlock who was sitting with her back against the wall, her knees bent and splayed. Her hand covered her mons.

“Perhaps,” said Sherlock.

“Fuck,” breathed John. She turned her head and Mycroft’s lips met hers. As they kissed, John felt the bathrobe being stripped from her body completely.

Sherlock slipped down in front of John. “Now who’s the fucktoy?” she asked in a husky voice.

Mycroft’s weight disappeared; John whimpered. Sherlock and Mycroft both shushed her.

“Oh!”

Mycroft returned, and it was skin against skin against skin.

“Me,” whined John, whipping her head back and forth, frantically kissing whatever bits of them where nearest. “Use me, please.”

“Like this?” Mycroft slammed into John with such force that John might have injured herself had Sherlock not been between John and the upper bed.

John reached back and gripped Mycroft’s thighs as she rut against John’s arse.

Then John leaned forward and panted into Sherlock’s open mouth.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck.”

Sherlock’s hands were cupping John’s jaw, then her breasts, then her jaw again.

There were sharp teeth on the nape of John’s neck, then Mycroft stilled.

John reached for Mycroft’s hand, then Sherlock’s and brought them both to her mons.

“John?” they queried.

John released their hands and curled her arms forward and backward around their necks. She kissed Mycroft, then Sherlock, and said, “Want to suck us off your fingers.”

They groaned and each began to thrust an index finger inside her. The discomfort quickly ebbed, and John found herself relishing the intrusion.

When she wobbled, she realised that her hands and knees were the only thing holding her upright. She glanced down.

Sherlock was fucking herself with her free hand. If Mycroft was, too…

“Oh, Christ.”

John twisted and they fell together in a jumble of bodies on the lower bed.

Mycroft held John’s head and her gaze as she painted John’s bottom lip with her thumb. John licked. Mycroft kissed John’s lips roughly. Then John turned with mouth open and Sherlock brushed her top lip.

And then John purposefully drowned herself in their collective lust, not knowing, and frankly, not caring, whose fingers were in her mouth and whose were in her cunt. She sucked fingers; she arched into hands. She chased her lovers across and over the beds. She playfully fled and was captured and subdued, over and over, until she finally dozed in their arms with the scent of their lust enveloping them, covering them, disorienting them like a fog.

* * *

“John.” It was a whispered whine; there was a nose at her cleavage.

John rolled, cupping her breast, and pressed her nipple to waiting lips. Sherlock latched at once and began to suckle. John sighed into the delicious wet heat. Then she cracked one eye, knowing that Mycroft was watching from above.

“Like an owl,” she murmured. The owl smiled.

John puckered her lips, then squeezed her bare breast in invitation.

Mycroft shook her head, but returned the air kiss. “Just watching.”

“Like an owl,” John repeated and closed her eyes. She twined one leg around Sherlock’s back.

She licked her lips. She could still taste them.

Sherlock released John’s nipple and began to trail wet, sloppy kisses down her torso.

“Your decision, of course,” said John in a low teasing tone. “But it would be a pity not to test the, uh, engineering.” She said it certain that her suggestion would be gently rebuffed.

Thus, John's surprise when whe found herself stretched between the two beds, with Sherlock lapped at her cunt as she rimmed Mycroft.

Then there was a shower, and more rimming, which dissolved into giggling, on John’s part, and bickering, on Mycroft and Sherlock’s part, as the sisters could not resist the urge to provide constructive criticism to John—and each other—on proper technique and etiquette.

“Let’s go to sleep,” said John finally. “But I don’t suppose I’m any cleaner than when we started.”

* * *

“Thank you,” said John as she crawled back into bed.

“You’re welcome,” they replied.

John heard the familiar staring contest.

“She was referring to…” began Mycroft.

“Simplistic interpretation, as usual, and John is not simple. I believe she was, in fact, referring to…” interrupted Sherlock.

John fell asleep to the comforting sound of her soulmates’ squabbling.

* * *

“John.”

They were both standing, fully dressed, at the edge of the bed.

John sat up sharply.

“Duty calls, lamentably,” said Mycroft.

“Lestrade wants a statement. Now,” said Sherlock.

“Okay, okay.” John threw off the bedding.

“You can join me later,” said Sherlock.

“You’re welcome to stay as long as you wish,” added Mycroft.

John shook her head. “I’m coming. Just give us a minute, yeah?” She rose and slipped on the bathrobe, then stumbled to the toilet and flipped on the light.

And saw the tub.

Sparkling. Shining. Oh, so inviting.

John turned back and leaned against the doorway. She smiled and snuffled and, with curled fingers, idly rubbed the spot on her chest where her soulmates’ names were written.

“Bath’s too nice not to, uh, yeah, anyway. I think I will, uh, join you later, Sherlock.”

“Enjoy,” said Mycroft with a nod.

John waved and retreated into the room behind her, but as she inspected the knobs and taps on the tub, she did not hear the door in the bedroom open. Or close.

She heard them staring. Hesitating?

She smiled and popped her head back out.

“How about if I take a video and send it to you?” she said with a wink.

They both blushed.

Beautifully. Adorably. Identically.

Then they opened their mouths.

John raised a hand.

“Okay, two videos.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading!


End file.
